THE  LIBRARIES 


GIVEN  BY 


H,   W.  Wilson 


THE  ^fEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 


THE  NEW  BOOK 
OF  MARTYRS 

From  the  French 
of 

GEORGES  DUHAMEL 

BY 

FLORENCE  SIMMONDS 


>  ' »    » 


i » 
'j  »   > 


NEW  YORK. 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT.  1918, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DO  RAN  COMPANY 


GIFT  CF 
H.  W.  WILSON 

MAR  2  2  1929 


1  ^ 

C     I. 


PRINTED  IN  THE  tNlTED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THROUGHOUT  OUR  LAND 9 

THE  STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU   ...  12 

MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS 42 

THE  DEATH  OF  MERCIER .  96 

VERDUN lOI 

THE  SACRIFICE  .       .            .       ,^\       .       •       •       .  I36 

THE  THIRD  SYMPHONY         ....••.  I63 

GRACE 167 

NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS   .       .       •       •  _  •  ^..•^•E.  •       •  I^S 


THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 


THE  NEW  BOOK  OF 
MARTYRS 

THROUGHOUT  OUR  LAND 

FROM  the  disfigured  regions  where  the 
cannon  reigns  supreme,  to  the  moun- 
tains of  the  South,  to  the  ocean,  to 
the  glittering  shores  of  the  inland  sea,  the  cry 
of  wounded  men  echoes  throughout  the  land, 
and  a  vast  kindred  cry  seems  to  rise  responsive 
from  the  whole  world. 

There  is  no  French  town  in  which  the 
wounds  inflicted  on  the  battle-field  are  not 
bleeding.  Not  one  which  has  not  accepted 
the  duty  of  assuaging  something  of  the  sum  of 
suffering,  just  as  It  bears  Its  part  In  the  sum 
of  mourning;  not  one  which  may  not  hear 
within  Its  own  walls  an  echo  of  the  greater 
lamentation  swelling  and  muttering  where 
the  conflict  seems  to  rage  unceasingly.     The 

9 


10         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

waves  of  war  break  upon  the  whole  surface  of 
the  country,  and  like  the  incoming  tide,  strew 
it  with  wreckage. 

In  the  beds  which  the  piety  of  the  public 
has  prepared  on  every  side,  stricken  men 
await  the  verdict  of  fate.  The  beds  are  white, 
the  bandages  are  spotless;  many  faces  smile 
until  the  hour  when  they  are  flushed  with 
fever,  and  until  that  same  fever  makes  a 
whole  nation  of  wounded  tremble  on  the 
Continent. 

Some  one  who  had  been  visiting  the  wounded 
said  to  me:  *'The  beds  are  really  very  white, 
the  dressings  are  clean,  all  the  patients  seem 
to  be  playing  cards,  reading  the  papers,  eating 
dainties;  they  are  simple,  often  very  gentle, 
they  don't  look  very  unhappy.  They  all  tell 
the  same  story.  .  .  .  The  war  has  not  changed 
them  much.     One  can  recognise  them  all." 

Are  you  sure  that  you  recognise  them?  You 
have  just  been  looking  at  them,  are  you  sure 
that  you  have  seen  them? 

Under  their  bandages  are  wounds  you  cannot 
imagine.  Below  the  wounds,  in  the  depths  of 
the  mutilated  flesh,  a  soul,  strange  and  furtive, 
is  stirring  in  feverish  exaltation,  a  soul  which 


THROUGHOUT  THE  LAND  11 

does  not  readily  reveal  Itself,  which  expresses 
itself  artlessly,  but  which  I  would  fain  make 
you  understand. 

In  these  days,  when  nothing  retains  its 
former  semblance,  all  these  men  are  no  longer 
those  you  so  lately  knew.  Suffering  has 
roused  them  from  the  sleep  of  gentle  life, 
and  every  day  fills  them  with  a  terrible  in- 
toxication. They  are  now  something  more 
thaT\  themselves;  those  we  loved  were  merely 
happy  shadows. 

Let  us  lose  none  of  their  humble  words,  let 
us  note  their  slightest  gestures,  and  tell  me, 
tell  me  that  ve  will  think  of  them  together, 
now  and  later,  when  we  realise  the  misery 
of  the  times  and  the  magnitude  of  their 
sacrifice. 


THE  STORY  OF  CARRE  AND 
LERONDEAU 

THEY  came  in  like  two  parcels  dis- 
patched by  the  same  post,  two  clum- 
sy, squalid  parcels,  badly  packed, 
and  damaged  in  transit.  Two  human  form, 
rolled  up  in  linens  and  woollens,  strapped  lito 
strange  instruments,  one  of  which  enclo'iid  the 
whole  man,  like  a  coffin  of  zinc  and  wire. 

They  seemed  to  be  of  no  partictlar  age;  or 
rather,  each  might  have  been  a/housand  and 
more,  the  age  of  swaddled  raimmies  in  the 
depths  of  sarcophagi.  / 

We  washed,  combed,  ard  peeled  them,  and 
laid  them  very  cau4*ously  between  clean 
sheets;  then  we  foura  that  one  had  the  look 
of  an  old  man,  aid  that  the  other  was  still 
a  boy. 

*  *  Hi 

Their  ^eds  face  each  other  in  the  same  grey 
roon?.  All  who  enter  it  notice  them  at  once; 
their  infinite  misery  gives  them  an  air  of 
kinship.        Compared    with    them,    the    other 

12 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  13 

wounded  seem  well  and  happy.  And  In  this 
abode  of  suffering,  they  are  kings;  their 
couches  are  encircled  by  the  respect  and  si- 
lence due  to  majesty. 

I  approach  the  younger  man  and  bend  over 
him. 

'What  is  your  name?" 

The  answer  is  a  murmur  accompanied  by  an 
imploring  look.  What  I  hear  sounds  like : 
Mahlhehondo.     It  is  a  sigh  with  modulations. 

It  takes  me  a  week  to  discover  that  the 
boyish  patient  is  called  Marie  Lerondeau. 

The  bed  opposite  is  less  confused.  I  see  a 
little  toothless  head.  From  out  the  ragged 
beard  comes  a  peasant  voice,  broken  in  tone, 
but  touching  and  almost  melodious.  The  man 
who  lies  there  is  called  Carre. 


They  did  not  come  from  the  same  battle- 
field, but  they  were  hit  almost  at  the  same  time, 
and  they  have  the  same  wound.  Each  has  a 
fractured  thigh.  Chance  brought  them  to- 
gether in  the  same  distant  ambulance,  where 
their  wounds  festered  side  by  side.  Since  then 
they   have    kept    together,    till    now    they    lie 


14.  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

enfolded  by  the  blue  radiance  of  the  Master's 
gaze. 

He  looks  at  both,  and  shakes  his  head 
silently;  truly,  a  bad  business!  He  can  but 
ask  himself  which  of  the  two  will  die  first,  so 
great  are  the  odds  against  the  survival  of 
either. 

The  white-bearded  man  considers  them  In 
silence,  turning  In  his  hand  the  cunning  knife. 

*  *  * 

We  can  know  nothing  till  after  this  grave 
debate.  The  soul  must  withdraw,  for  this  is 
not  its  hour.  Now  the  knife  must  divide  the 
flesh,  and  lay  the  ravage  bare,  and  do  its  work 
completely. 

So  the  two  comrades  go  to  sleep,  in  that 
dreadful  slumber  w^hereln  each  man  resembles 
his  own  corpse.  Henceforth  we  enter  upon 
the  struggle.  We  have  laid  our  grasp  upon 
these  two  bodies;  we  shall  not  let  them  be 
snatched  from  us  easily. 

*  *  * 

The  nausea  of  the  awakening,  the  sharp 
agony  of  the  first  hours  are  over,  and  I  begin 
to  discover  my  new  friends. 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  15 

This  requires  time  and  patience.  The  dress- 
ing hour  Is  propitious.  The  man  lies  naked 
on  the  table.  One  sees  him  as  a  whole,  as 
also  those  great  gaping  wounds,  the  objects  of 
so  many  hopes  and  fears. 

The  afternoon  is  no  less  favourable  to  com- 
munion, but  that  is  another  matter.  Calm 
has  come  to  them,  and  these  two  creatures 
have  ceased  to  be  nothing  but  a  tortured  leg 
and  a  screaming  mouth. 

Carre  went  ahead  at  once.  He  made  a 
veritable  bound.  Whereas  Lerondeau  seemed 
still  wrapped  in  a  kind  of  plaintive  stupor, 
Carre  was  already  enfolding  me  in  a  deep 
affectionate  gaze.     He  said: 

''You  must  do  all  that  is  necessary." 

Lerondeau  can  as  yet  only  murmur  a  half 
articulate  phrase : 

"Mustn't  hurt  me.'* 


As  soon  as  I  could  distinguish  and  under- 
stand the  boy's  words,  I  called  him  by  his 
Christian  name.     I  would  say: 

"How  are  you,  Marie?"  or  "I  am  pleased 
with  you,  Marie." 


16         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

This  familiarity  suits  him,  as  does  my  use 
of  "thee"  and  *'thou"  in  talking  to  him. 
He  very  soon  guessed  that  I  speak  thus  only 
to  those  who  suffer  most,  and  for  whom  I  have 
a  special  tenderness.  So  I  say  to  him:  "Marie, 
the  wound  looks  very  well  to-day."  And 
every  one  in  the  hospital  calls  him  Marie  as 
I  do. 

When  he  is  not  behaving  well,  I  say: 
"Come,  be  sensible,  Lerondeau." 
His  eyes  fill  with  tears  at  once.  One  day  I 
was  obliged  to  try  "Monsieur  Lerondeau," 
and  he  was  so  hurt  that  I  had  to  retract  on 
the  spot.  However,  he  now  refrains  from 
grumbling  at  his  orderly,  and  screaming  too 
loudly  during  the  dressing  of  his  wound,  for  he 
knows  that  the  day  I  say  to  him  "Be  quiet, 
Monsieur" — just  Monsieur — our  relations  will 
be  exceedingly  strained. 

*  *  * 

From  the  first,  Carre  bore  himself  like  a 
man.  When  I  entered  the  dressing  ward,  I 
found  the  two  lying  side  by  side  on  stretchers 
which  had  been  placed  on  the  floor^^  j  Carre's 
emaciated     arm     emerged     from     under     his 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  17 

blanket,  and  he  began  to  lecture  Marie  on  the 
subject  of  hope  and  courage.  ...  I  listened 
to  the  quavering  voice,  I  looked  at  the  toothless 
face,  lit  up  by  a  smile,  and  I  felt  a  curious 
choking  in  my  throat,  while  Lerondeau  blinked 
like  a  child  who  is  being  scolded.  Then  I 
went  out  of  the  room,  because  this  was  a 
matter  between  those  two  lying  on  the  ground, 
and  had  nothing  to  do  with  me,  a  robust 
person,  standing  on  my  feet. 

•P  3jK  3f» 

Since  then,  Carre  has  proved  that  he  had  a 
right  to  preach  courage  to  young  Lerondeau. 

While  the  dressing  is  being  prepared,  he  lies 
on  the  ground  with  the  others,  waiting  his 
turn,  and  says  very  little.  He  looks  gravely 
round  him,  and  smiles  when  his  eyes  meet 
mine.  He  is  not  proud,  but  he  is  not  one  of 
those  who  are  ready  to  chatter  to  every  one. 
One  does  not  come  into  this  ward  to  talk,  but 
to  suffer,  and  Carre  is  bracing  himself  to  suffer 
as  decently  as  possible. 

When  he  is  not  quite  sure  of  himself,  he 
warns  me,  saying: 

*'I  am  not  as  strong  as  usual  tOjjay.^^ 


18  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Nine  times  out  of  ten,  he  is  *'as  strong  as 
usual,"  but  he  is  so  thin,  so  wasted,  so  reduced 
by  his  mighty  task,  that  he  is  sometimes 
obliged  to  beat  a  retreat.  He  does  It  with 
honour,  with  dignity.  He  has  just  said:  "My 
knee  is  terribly  painful,"  and  the  sentence 
almost  ends  In  a  scream.  Then,  feeling  that 
he  is  about  to  howl  like  the  others,  Carre 
begins  to  sing. 

The  first  time  this  happened  I  did  not  quite 
understand  what  was  going  on.  He  repeated 
the  one  phrase  again  and  again :  "Oh,  the 
pain  in  my  knee!"  And  gradually  I  became 
aware  that  thls_lament  was  becoming  a  real 
melody,  and  for  five  long  minutes  Carre  Im- 
provised a  terrible,  wonderful,  heart-rending 
song  on  "the  pain  In  his  knee."  Since  then 
this  has  become  a  habit,  and  he  begins  to  sing 
suddenly  as  soon  as  he  feels  that  he  can  no 
longer  keep  silence. 

Among  his  improvisations  he  will  Introduce 
old  airs.  I  prefer  not  to  look  at  his  face  when 
he  begins:  "II  n'est  nl  beau  nl  grand  mon 
verre."  Indeed,  I  have  a  good  excuse  for 
not  looking  at  it,  for  I  am  very  busy  with 
his   poor   leg,   which   gives   me   much   anxiety. 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  19 

and  has   to  be   handled  with   infinite   precau- 
tions. 

I  do  "all  that  Is  necessary,"  introducing  the 
burning  tincture  of  iodine  several  times.  Carre 
feels  the  sting;  and  when,  passing  by  his  cor- 
ner  an  hour  later,  I  listen  for  a  moment,  I 
hear  him  slowly  chanting  in  a  trembling  but 
melodious  voice  the  theme:  "He  gave  me 
tincture  of  iodine." 


Carre  Is  proud  of  showing  courage. 

This  morning  he  seemed  so  weak  that  I  tried 
to  be  as  quick  as  possible  and  to  keep  my  ears 
shut.  But  presently  a  stranger  came  into  the 
ward.  Carre  turned  his  head  slightly,  saw 
the  visitor,  and  frowning,  began  to  sing: 

"II  n'est  ni  beau  ni  grand  mon  verre." 

The  stranger  looked  at  him  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  but  the  more  he  looked,  the  more  reso- 
lutely Carre  smiled,  clutching  the  edges  of  the 
table  with  his  two  quivering  hands. 


Lerondeau  has  good  strong  teeth.      Carre 
has  nothing  but  black  stumps.     This  distresses 


20  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

me,  for  a  man  with  a  fractured  thigh  needs 
good  teeth. 

Lerondeau  is  still  at  death's  door,  but 
though  moribund,  he  can  eat.  He  attacks  his 
meat  with  a  well-armed  jaw;  he  bites  with 
animal  energy,  and  seems  to  fasten  upon  any- 
thing substantial. 

Carre,  for  his  part,  is  well-inclined  to  eat; 
but  what  can  he  do  with  his  old  stumps? 

"Besides,"  he  says,  "I  was  never  very  car- 


nivorous." 


Accordingly,  he  prefers  to  smoke.  In  view 
of  lying  perpetually  upon  his  back,  he  ar- 
ranged the  cover  of  a  cardboard  box  upon  his 
chest;  the  cigarette  ash  falls  into  this,  and 
Carre  smokes  without  moving,  in  cleanly  fash- 
ion. 

I  look  at  the  ash,  the  smoke,  the  yellow, 
emaciated  face,  and  reflect  sadly  that  it  is  not 
enough  to  have  the  will  to  live ; .one  must 
have  teeth. 

JJC  T*  *F 

Not  every  one  knows  how  to  suffer,  and  even 
when  we  know,  we  must  set  about  it  the  right 
way,  if  we  are  to  come  off  with  honour.     As 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  21 

soon  as  he  is  on  the  table,  Carre  looks  round 
him  and  asks: 

''Isn't  there   any  one   to   squeeze   my  head 
to-day?" 

If  there  is  no  answer,  he  repeats  anxiously: 

"Who  is  going  to  squeeze  my  head  to-day?" 

Then   a   nurse    approaches,    takes   his  head 

between    her   hands    and   presses.  ...  I    can 

begin;  as  soon  as  some  one  is  "squeezing  his 

head"  Carre  is  good. 

Lerondeau's  method  Is  different.  He  wants 
some  one  to  hold  his  hands.  When  there  is 
no  one  to  do  this,  he  shrieks:  "I  shall  fall." 
It  is  no  use  to  tell  him  that  he  Is  on  a  solid 
table,  and  that  he  need  not  be  afraid.  He 
gropes  about  for  the  helpful  hands,  and  cries, 
the  sweat  breaking  out  on  his  brow:  "I  know 
I  shall  fall."  Then  I  get  some  one  to  come 
and  hold  his  hands,  for  suffering,  at  any  rate, 
is  a  reality.  .  .  . 


Each  sufferer  has  his  characteristic  cry  when 
the  dressing  is  going  on.  The  poor  have  only 
one,  a  simple  cry  that  does  service  for  them 
all.     It  makes  one  think  of  the  women  who, 


^2         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

when  they  are  bringing  a  child  Into  the  world, 
repeat,  at  every  pain,  the  one  complaint  they 
have  adopted. 

Carre  has  a  great  many  varied  cries,  and  he 
does  not  say  the  same  thing  when  the  dress- 
ing Is  removed,  and  when  the  forceps  are 
applied. 

At  the  supreme  moment  he  exclaims:  *'0h, 
the  pain  in  my  knee!" 

Then,  when  the  anguish  abates,  he  shakes 
his  head  and  repeats: 

"Oh,  that  wretched  knee !" 

When  It  Is  the  turn  of  the  thigh,  he  is 
exasperated. 

"Now  it's  this  thigh  again!" 

And  he  repeats  this  incessantly,  from  second 
to  second.  Then  we  go  on  to  the  wound 
under  his  heel,  and  Carre  begins: 

"Well,  what  is  wrong  with  the  poor  heel?" 

Finally,  when  he  is  tired  of  singing,  he 
murmurs  softly  and  regularly: 

"They  don't  know  how  that  wretched  knee 
hurts  me  .  .  .  they  don't  know  how  it  hurts 


me. 


Lerondeau,  who  Is,   and  always  will  be,  a 
little  boy  compared  with  Carre,  is  ver^  poor 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  23 

in  the  matter  of  cries.  But  when  he  hears  his 
friend's  complaints,  he  checks  his  own  cries, 
and  borrows  them.  Accordingly,  I  hear  him 
beginning: 

^'Oh,  my  poor  knee!  .  .  .  They  don't  know_ 
how  it  hurts!" 

One  morning  when  he  was  shouting  this  at 
the  top  of  his  voice,  I  asked  him  gravely: 

*'Why   do   you   make   the    same    complaints 
as  Carre?" 

Marie  is  only  a  peasant,  but  he  showed  me 
a  face  that  was  really  offended: 

"It's    not    true.       I    don't    say    the    same 
things." 

I  said  no  more,  for  there  are  no  souls  so 
rugged  that  they  cannot  feel  certain  stings. 


Marie  has  told  me  the  story  of  his  life  and 
of  his  campaign.  As  he  is  not  very  eloquent, 
it  was  for  the  most  part  a  confused  murmur 
with  an  ever-recurring  protestation: 

'^I  was  a  good  one  to  work,  you  know, 
strong  as  a  horse." 

Yet  I  can  hardly  imagine  that  there  was 
once  a   Marie  Lerondeau  who  was  a   robust 


24         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

young  fellow,  standing  firm  and  erect  between 
the  handles  of  a  plough.  I  know  him  only  as 
a  man  lying  on  his  back,  and  I  even  find  it 
difficult  to  picture  to  myself  what  his  shape 
and  aspect  will  be  when  we  get  him  on  his 
feet  again. 

Marie  did  his  duty  bravely  under  fire.  "He 
stayed  alone  with  the  wagons  and  when  he 
was  wounded,  the  Germans  kicked  him  with 
their  heavy  boots."  These  are  the  salient 
points  of  the  interrogatory. 

Now  and  again  Lerondeau's  babble  ceases, 
and  he  looks  up  to  the  ceiHng,  for  this  takes 
the  place  of  distance  and  horizon  to  those  who 
lie  upon  their  backs.  After  a  long,  light  silence, 
he  looks  at  me  again,  and  repeats: 

"I  must  have  been  pretty  brave  to  stay  alone 
with  the  wagons!" 

True  enough,  Lerondeau  was  brave,  and  I 
take  care  to  let  people  know  it.  When 
strangers  come  in  during  the  dressings,  I  show 
them  Marie,  who  is  making  ready  to  groan, 
and  say: 

"This  is  Marie — Marie  Lerondeau,  you 
know.     He  has  a   fractured  thigh,  but  he  is 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  25 

a  very  brave  fellow.  He  stayed  alone  with 
the  wagons." 

The  visitors  nod  their  heads  admiringly,  and 
Marie  controls  himself.  He  blushes  a  little, 
and  the  muscles  of  his  neck  swell  with  pride. 
He  makes  a  sign  with  his  eyes  as  if  to  say: 
"Yes,  indeed,  alone,  all  alone  with  the  wag- 
ons." And  meanwhile,  the  dressing  has  been 
nearly  finished. 

The  whole  world  must  know  that  Marie 
stayed  alone  with  the  wagons.  I  intend  to 
pin  a  report  of  this  on  the  Government  pen- 
sion certificate. 


Carre  was  only  under  fire  once,  and  was  hit 
almost  immediately.  He  is  much  annoyed  at 
this,  for  he  had  a  good  stock  of  courage,  and 
now  he  has  to  waste  it  within  the  walls  of  a 
hospital. 

He  advanced  through  a  huge  beetroot  field, 
and  he  ran  with  the  others  towards  a  fine 
white  mist.  All  of  a  sudden,  crack,  he 
fell!  His  thigh  was  fractured.  He  fell 
among  the  thick  leaves,  on  the  waterlogged 
earth. 


26         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Shortly  afterwards  his  sergeant  passed  again, 
and  said  to  him: 

''We  are  gohig  back  to  our  trench,  they 
shall  come  and  fetch  you  later." 

Carre  merely  said: 

"Put  my  haversack  under  my  head." 

Evening  was  coming  on;  he  prepared,  grave- 
ly, to  spend  the  night  among  the  beetroots. 
And  there  he  spent  it,  alone  with  a  cold  driz- 
zling rain,  meditating  seriously  until  morning. 


* 


It  was  fortunate  that  Carre  brought  such  a 
stock  of  courage  into  hospital,  for  he  needs  it 
all.  Successive  operations  and  dressings  make 
large  drafts  upon  the  most  generous  supplies. 

They  put  Carre  upon  the  table,  and  I  note 
an  almost  joyful  resolution  in  his  look.  To- 
day he  has  ''all  his  strength,  to  the  last  ounce." 

But  just  to-day,  I  have  but  little  to  do,  not 
much  suffering  to  inflict.  He  has  scarcely 
knitted  his  brows,  when  I  begin  to  fasten  up 
the  apparatus  again. 

Then  Carre's  haggard  face  breaks  into  a 
smile,  and  he  exclaims: 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  27 

^'Finished  already?  Put  some  more  ether 
on,  make  it  sting  a^blt^at  least." 

Carre  knows  that  the  courage  of  which 
there  was  no  need  to-day  will  not,  perhaps,  be 
available  to-morrow. 


And  to-morrow,  and  for  many  days  after, 
Carre  will  have  to  be  constantly  calling  up 
those  reserves  of  the  soul  which  help  the  body 
to  suffer  while  it  waits  for  the  good  offices  of 
Nature. 

The  swimmer  adrift  on  the  open  seas  meas- 
ures his  strength,  and  strives  with  all  his 
muscles  to  keep  himself  afloat.  But  what  is 
he  to  do  when  there  is  no  land  on  the 
horizon,  and  none  beyond  it? 

This  leg,  infected  to  the  very  marrow, 
seems  to  be  slowly  devouring  the  man  to 
whom  It  belongs;  we  look  at  It  anxiously, 
and  the  white-haired  Master  fixes  two  small 
light-blue  eyes  upon  It,  eyes  accustomed  to 
appraise  the  things  of  life,  yet,  for  the  mo- 
ment, hesitant. 

I  speak  to  Carre  In  veiled  words  of  the 
troublesome,    gangrenous    leg.       He    gives    a 


28         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

toothless  laugh,  and  settles  the  question  at 
once. 

"Well,  if  the  wretched  thing  is  a  nuisance, 
we  shall  have  to  get  rid  of  it." 

After  this  consent,  we  shall  no  doubt  make 
up  our  minds  to  do  so. 

*  *  * 

Meanwhile  Lerondeau  is  creeping  steadily 
towards  healing. 

Lying  on  his  back,  bound  up  in  bandages 
and  a  zinc  trough,  and  imprisoned  by  aishions, 
he  nevertheless  looks  like  a  ship  which  the 
tide  will  set  afloat  at  dawn. 

He  is  putting  on  flesh,  yet,  strange  to 
say,  he  seems  to  get  lighter  and  lighter. 
He  is  learning  not  to  groan,  not  because 
his  frail  soul  is  gaining  strength,  but  be- 
cause the  animal  is  better  fed  and  more 
robust. 

His  ideas  of  strength  of  mind  are  indeed 
very  elementary.  As  soon  as  I  hear  his  first 
cry,  in  the  warm  room  where  his  wound  is 
dressed,  I  give  him  an  encouraging  look,  and 
say: 

"Be  brave,  Marie!     Try  to  be  strong!" 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  29 

Then  he  knits  his  brows,  makes  a  grimace, 
and  asks: 

^'Ought  I  to  say  'By  God!'?'* 

The  zinc  trough  in  which  Marie's  shattered 
leg  has  been  lying  has  lost  its  shape;  it  has 
become  oxydised  and  is  split  at  the  edges; 
so  I  have  decided  to  change  it. 

I  take  it  away,  look  at  it,  and  throw  it 
into  a  corner.  Marie  follows  my  movements 
with  a  scared  glance.  While  I  am  adjusting 
the  new^  trough,  a  solid,  comfortable  one,  but 
rather  different  in  appearance,  he^  casts  an 
eloquent  glance  at  the  discarded  one,  and  his 
eyes  fill  with  copious  tears. 

This  change  is  a  small  matter;  but  in  the 
lives  of  the  sick,  there  are  no  small  things. 

Lerondeau  will  weep  for  the  old  zinc  frag- 
ment for  two  days,  and  it  will  be  a  long  time 
before  he  ceases  to  look  distrustfully  at  the 
new  trough,  and  to  criticise  it  in  those  minute 
and  bitter  terms  which  only  a  connoisseur  can 
understand  or  invent. 


Carre,    on  the   other  hand,    cannot  succeed 
in   carrying  along  his  body  by  the   generous 


so         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Impulse  of  his  soul.  Everything  about  him 
save  his  eyes  and  his  liquid  voice  foreshadow 
the  corpse.  Throughout  the  winter  days  and 
the  long  sleepless  nights,  he  looks  as  if  he  were 
dragging  along  a  derelict. 

He  strains  at  it  .  .  .  with  his  poignant 
songs  and  his  brave  words  which  falter  now, 
and  often  die  away  in  a  moan. 

I  had  to  do  his  dressing  in  the  presence  of 
Marie.  The  amount  of  work  to  be  got 
through,  and  the  cramped  quarters  made  this 
necessary.  Marie  was  grave  and  attentive  as 
if  he  were  taking  a  lesson,  and,  indeed,  it  was 
a  lesson  in  patience  and  courage.  But  all  at 
once,  the  teacher  broke  down.  In  the  middle 
of  the  dressing,  Carre  opened  his  lips,  and  in 
spite  of  himself,  began  to  complain  without 
restraint  or  measure,  giving  up  the  struggle 
in  despair. 

Lerondeau  listened,  anxious  and  uneasy;  and 
Carre,  knowing  that  Marie  was  listening,  con- 
tinued to  lament,  like  one  who  has  lost  all 
sense  of  shame. 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  31 

Lerondeau  called  me  by  a  motion  of  his 
eyelids.     He  said: 

^'Carre!  .  .  ." 

And  he  added: 

"I  saw  his  slough.     Lord!  he  is  bad." 

Lerondeau  has  a  good  memory  for  medical 
terms.  Yes,  he  saw  Carre's  slough.  He  him- 
self has  the  like  on  his  posterior  and  on  his 
heel;  but  the  tear  that  trembles  in  the  corner 
of  his  eye  is  certainly  for  Carre. 

And  then,  he  knows,  he  feels  that  his  wounds 
are  going  to  heal. 

But  it  is  bad  for  Marie  to  hear  another 
complaining  before  his  own  turn. 

He  comes  to  the  table  very  ill-disposed. 
His  nerves  have  been  shaken  and  are  un- 
usually irritable. 

At  the  first  movement,  he  begins  with  sighs 
and  those  "Poor  devils!"  which  are  his  art- 
less and  habitual  expressions  of  self-pity.  And 
then,  all  at  once,  he  begins  to  scream,  as 
I  had  not  heard  him  scream  for  a  long  time. 
He  screams  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  opening 
his    mouth    widely,     and    shrieking    with    all 


32         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

the  strength  of  his  lungs,  and  with  all  the 
strength  of  his  face,  it  would  seem,  for  it  is 
flushed  and  bathed  in  sweat.  He  screams 
unreasonably  at  the  lightest  touch,  in  an  in- 
coherent and  disorderly  fashion. 

Then,  ceasing  to  exhort  him  to  be  calm  with 
gentle  and  compassionate  words,  I  raise  my 
voice  suddenly  and  order  the  boy  to  be  quiet, 
in  a  severe  tone  that  admits  of  no  parley- 
ing. .  .  . 

Marie's  agitation  subsides  at  once,  like  a 
bubble  at  the  touch  of  a  finger.  The  ward 
still  rings  with  my  imperious  order.  A  good 
lady  who  does  not  understand  at  once,  stares 
at  me  in  stupefaction. 

But  Marie,  red  and  frightened,  controls  his 
unreasonable  emotion.  And  as  long  as  the 
dressing  lasts,  I  dominate  his  soul  strenuously 
to  prevent  him  from  suffering  in  vain,  just 
as  others  hold  and  grasp  his  wrists. 

Then,  presently,  it  is  all  over.  I  give  him 
a  fraternal  smile  that  relaxes  the  tension  of  his 
brow  as  a  bow  is  unbent. 

*i*  ^^  ^p 

A  lady,  who  is  a  duchess  at  the  least,  came 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  33 

to  visit  the  wounded.  She  exhaled  such  a 
strong,  sweet  perfume  that  she  cannot  have 
distinguished  the  odour  of  suffering  that  per- 
vades this  place. 

Carre  was  shown  to  her  as  one  of  the  most 
interesting  specimens  of  the  house.  She  looked 
at  him  with  a  curious,  faded  smile,  which, 
thanks  to  paint  and  powder,  still  had  a  cer- 
tain beauty. 

She  made  some  patriotic  remarks  to  Carre 
full  of  allusions  to  his  conduct  under  fire. 
And  Carre  ceased  staring  out  of  the  window 
to  look  at  the  lady  with  eyes  full  of  respectful 
astonishment. 

And  then  she  asked  Carre  what  she  could 
send  him  that  he  would  like,  with  a  gesture 
that  seemed  to  offer  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth 
and  the  glory  of  them. 

Carre,  in  return,  gave  her  a  radiant  smile; 
he  considered  for  a  moment  and  then  said 
modestly : 

"A  little  bit  of  veal  with  new_£otatoes." 

The  handsome  lady  thought  it  tactful  to 
laugh.  And  I  felt  instinctively  that  her  in- 
terest in   Carre  was   suddenly   quenched. 


34         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

An  old  man  sometimes  comes  to  visit 
Carre.  He  stops  before  the  bed,  and  with  a 
stony  face  pronounces  words  full  of  an  over- 
flowing benevolence. 

''Give  him  anything  he  asks  for.  .  .  .  Send 
a  telegram  to  his  family." 

Carre  protests  timidly:  "Why  a  telegram? 
I  have  no  one  but  my  poor  old  mother;  it 
would  frighten  her." 

The  little  old  gentleman  emerges  from  his 
varnished  boots  like  a  variegated  plant  from 
a  double  vase. 

Carre  coughs — first,  to  keep  himself  in 
countenance,  and,  secondly,  because  his  cruel 
bronchitis  takes  this  opportunity  to  give  him 
a  shaking. 

Then  the  old  gentleman  stoops,  and  all  his 
medals  hang  out  from  his  tunic  like  little 
dried-up  breasts.  He  bends  down,  puffing 
and  pouting,  without  removing  his  gold- 
trimmed  kepi,  and  lays  a  deaf  ear  on  Carre's 
chest  with  an  air  of  authority. 

3fC  3(€  3JC 

Carre's  leg  has  been  sacrificed.  The  whole 
limb  has  gone,  leaving  a  huge  and  dreadful 
wound  level  with  the  trunk. 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  85 

It  Is  very  surprising  that  the  rest  of  Carre 
did  not   go   with   the   leg. 

He  had  a  pretty  hard  day. 

O  life  I  O  soul !  How  you  cling  to  this 
battered  carcase  I  O  little  gleam  on  the 
surface  of  the  eye!  Twenty  times  I  saw  It 
die  down  and  kindle  again.  And  It  seemed 
too  suffering,  too  weak,  too  despairing  ever 
to  reflect  anything  again  save  suffering,  weak- 
ness, and  despair. 


During  the  long  afternoon,  I  go  and  sit 
between  two  beds  beside  Lerondeau.  I  offer 
him  cigarettes,  and  we  talk.  This  means  that 
we  say  nothing,  or  very  little.  .  .  .  But  It  Is 
not  necessary'  to  speak  when  one  has  a  talk 
with  Lerondeau. 

Marie  Is  very  fond  of  cigarettes,  but  w^hat 
he  likes  still  better  Is  that  I  should  come  and 
sit  by  him  for  a  bit.  When  I  pass  through 
the  ward,  he  taps  coaxingly  upon  his  sheet, 
as  one  taps  upon  a  bench  to  Invite  a  friend  to 
a  seat. 

Since  he  told  me  about  his  Hfe  at  home  and 
his  campaign,  he  has  not  found  much  to  say 


S6         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

to  me.  He  takes  the  cakes  with  which  his 
little  shelf  Is  laden,  and  crunches  them  with 
an  air  of  enjoyment. 

"As  for  me,"  he  says,  "I  just  eat  all  the 
time,"   and  he  laughs. 

If  he  stops  eating  to  smoke,  he  laughs  again. 
Then  there  is  an  agreeable  silence.  Marie 
looks  at  me,  and  begins  to  laugh  again.  And 
when  I  get  up  to  go,  he  says:  "Oh,  you  are 
not  In  such  a  great  hurry,  we  can  chat  a 
little  longer!" 

•P  *i"  n* 

Lerondeau's  leg  was  such  a  bad  business 
that  It  Is  now  permanently  shorter  than  the 
other  by  a  good  twelve  centimetres.  So  at 
least  It  seems  to  us,  looking  down  on  it  from 
above. 

But  Lerondeau,  who  has  only  seen  it  from 
afar  by  raising  his  head  a  little  above  the 
table  while  his  wounds  are  being  dressed,  has 
noticed  only  a  very  slight  difference  in  length 
between  his  two  legs. 

He  said  philosophically: 

"It  is  shorter,  but  with  a  good  thick 
sole.  .  .  ." 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  37 

When  Marie  was  better,  he  raised  himself 
on  his  elbow,  and  he  understood  the  extent 
of  his  Injury  more  clearly. 

*'I  shall  want  a  vev^  thick  sole,"  he  re- 
marked. 

Now  that  Lerondeau  can  sit  up,  he,  too,  can 
estimate  the  extent  of  the  damage  from 
above;  but  he  Is  happy  to  feel  life  w^elling 
up  once  more  in  him,  and  he  concludes  gaily: 

"What  I  shall  want  is  not  a  sole,  but  a 
little  bench." 


But  Carre  is  ill,  terribly  ill. 

That  valiant  soul  of  his  seems  destined  to 
be  left  alone,  for  all  else  is  failing. 

He  had  one  sound  leg.  Now  it  is  stiff  and 
swollen. 

He  had  healthy,  vigorous  arms.  Now  one 
of  them  is  covered  with  abscesses. 

The  joy  of  breathing  no  longer  exists  for 
Carre,  for  his  cough  shakes  him  savagely  in 
his  bed. 

The  back,  by  means  of  which  we  rest,  has 
also  betrayed  him.  Here  and  there  it  Is 
ulcerated;    for    man    was    not    meant    to    lie 


38         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

perpetually  on  his  back,  but  only  to  He  and 
sleep  on  it  after  a  day  of  toil. 

For  man  was  not  really  intended  to  suffer 
with  his  miserable,  faithless  body! 

And  his  heart  beats  laboriously. 

There  was  mischief  in  the  bowel  too.  So 
much  so,  that  one  day  Carre  was  unable  to 
control  himself,  before  a  good  many  people 
who  had  come  in. 

In  spite  of  our  care,  in  spite  of  our  friendly 
assurances,  Carre  was  so  ashamed  that  he 
wept.  He  who  always  said  that  a  man  ought 
not  to  cry,  he  who  never  shed  a  tear  in  the 
most  atrocious  suffering,  sobbed  with  shame 
on  account  of  this  accident.  And  I  could  not 
console  him. 

*  *  * 

He  no  longer  listens  to  all  we  say  to  him. 
He  no  longer  answers  our  questions.  He  has 
mysterious  fits  of  absence. 

He  who  was  so  dignified  in  his  language, 
expresses  himself  and  complains  with  the  words 
of  a  child. 

Sometimes  he  comes  up  out  of  the  depths 
and  speaks. 


f 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  39 

He  talks  of  death  with  an  Imaginative 
lucidity  which  sounds  like  actual  experi- 
ence. 

Sometimes  he  sees  It.  .  .  .  And  as  he  gazes, 
his  pupils  suddenly  distend. 

But  he  will  not,  he  cannot  make  up  his 
mmd.  .  .  . 

He  wants  to  suffer  a  little  longer. 

I  draw  near  to  his  bed  in  the  gathering 
darkness.  His  breathing  is  so  light  that  sud- 
denly, I  stop  and  listen  open-mouthed,  full  of 
anxiety. 

Then  Carre  suddenly  opens  his  eyes. 

Will  he  sigh  and  groan?  No.  He  smiles 
and  says: 

*'What  white  teeth  you  have!" 

Then  he  dreams,  as  if  he  were  dying. 


Could  you  have  imagined  such  a  martyrdom, 
my  brother,  when  you  were  driving  the  plough 
Into  your  little  plot  of  brown  earth? 

Here  you  are,  enduring^^  death-agony  of 
five  months  swathed  In  these  livid  wrappings, 
without  even  the  rewards  that  are  given  to 
others. 


! 


40        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Your  breast,  your  shroud  must  be  bare  of 
even  the  humblest  of  the  rewards  of  valour, 
Carre. 

It  was  written  that  you  should  suffer  with- 
out purpose  and  without  hope. 

But  I  will  not  let  all  your  sufferings  be  lost 
in  the  abyss.  And  so  I  record  them  thus  at 
length. 

*  *  * 

L^erondeau  has  been  brought  down  into  the 
garden.  I  find  him  there,  stretched  out  on  a 
cane  chair,  with  a  little  kepi  pulled  down  over 
his  eyes,  to  shade  them  from  the  first  spring 
sunshine. 

He  talks  a  little,  smokes  a  good  deal,  and 
laughs  more. 

I  look  at  his  leg,  but  he  hardly  ever  looks 
at  it  himself;  he  no  longer  feels  it. 

He  will  forget  it  even  more  utterly  after  a 
while,  and  he  will  live  as  if  it  were  natural 
enough  for  a  man  to  live  with  a  stiff,  distorted 
limb. 

Forget  your  leg,  forget  your  sufferings, 
Lerondeau.  But  the  world  must  not  forget 
them. 


^,jm  ■''iii«**iftiV»*»#.>*»*'"^*'^'MrfV*tft<»-'-»"^-*'- 


f 


STORY  OF  CARRE  AND  LERONDEAU  41 

And  I  leave  Marie  sitting  in  the  sun,  with 
a  fine  new  pink  colour  in  his  freckled  cheeks. 


Carre  died  early  this  morning.    Lerondeau 
leaves  us  to-morrow. 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS 

I 

WERE    modesty    banished    from    the 
rest    of    the    earth,    it    would    no 
doubt  find  a  refuge  in   Mouchon's 
heart. 

I  see  him  still  as  he  arrived,  on  a  stretcher 
full  of  little  pebbles,  with  his  mud  be-plastered 
coat,  and  his  handsome,  honest  face,  like  that 
of  a  well-behaved  child. 

"You  must  excuse  me,'*  he  said;  "we  can't 
keep  ourselves  very  clean." 

"Have  you  any  lice?"  asks  the  orderly,  as 
he  undresses  him. 

Mouchon  flushes  and  looks  uneasy. 

"Well,  if  I  have,  they  don't  really  belong 
to  me." 

He  has  none,  but  he  has  a  broken  leg,  "due 
to  a  torpedo." 

The  orderly  cuts  open  his  trouser,  and  I 
tell  him  to  take  off  the  boot.  Mouchon  puts 
out  his  hand,  and  says  diffidently: 

42 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  43 

*'Never  mind  the  boot." 

"But,  my  good  fellow,  we  can't  dress  your 
leg  without  taking  off  your  boot." 

Then  Mouchon,  red  and  confused,  objects: 

**But  If  you  take  off  the  boot,  I'm  afraid 
my  foot  will  smell.  .  .  ." 

I  have  often  thought  of  this  answer.  And 
believe  me,  Mouchon,  I  have  not  yet  met  the 
prince  who  is  worthy  to  take  off  your  boots 
and  wash  your  humble  feet. 

II 

With  his  forceps  the  doctor  lays  hold  care- 
fully of  a  mass  of  bloody  dressings,  and  draws 
them  gently  out  of  a  gaping  wound  in  the 
abdomen.  A  ray  of  sunshine  lights  him  at 
his  work,  and  the  whole  of  the  frail  shed 
trembles  to  the  roar  of  the  cannon. 

"I  am  a  big  china-dealer,"  murmurs  the 
patient.  **You  come  from  Paris,  and  I  do, 
too.  Save  me,  and  you  shall  see.  .  .  .  I'll 
give  you  a  fine  piece  of  china." 

The  plugs  are  coming  out  by  degrees; 
the  forceps  glitter,  and  the  ray  of  sunshine 
seems   to    tremble    under   the    cannonade,    as 


44         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

do  the  floor,  the  walls,  the  light  roof,  the 
whole  earth,  the  whole  universe,  drunk  with 
fatigue. 

Suddenly,  from  the  depths  of  space,  a 
whining  sound  arises,  swells,  rends  the  air 
above  the  shed,  and  the  shell  bursts  a  few 
yards  off,  with  the  sound  of  a  cracked  object 
breaking. 

The  thin  walls  seem  to  quiver  under  the 
pressure  of  the  air.  The  doctor  makes  a 
slight  movement  of  his  head,  as  if  to  see, 
after  all,  where  the  thing  fell. 

Then  the  china-dealer,  who  noted  the  move- 
ment, says  In  a  quiet  voice: 

"Don't  take  any  notice  of  those  small 
things,  they  don't  do  any  harm.  Only  save 
me,  and  I  will  give  you  a  beautiful  piece  of 
china  or  earthenware,  whichever  you  like." 

Ill 

The  root  of  the  evil  Is  not  so  much  the 
shattered  leg,  as  the  little  wound  in  the  arm, 
from  which  so  much  good  blood  was  lost. 

With  his  livid  lips,  no  longer  distinguishable 
from  the  rest  of  his  face,  and  the  immense 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS         45         < 

black    pupils    of    his    eyes,    the    man    shows        | 
a  countenance  irradiated  by  a  steadfast  soul, 
which    will    not    give    in    till    the    last    mo-       j 
mcnt.       He     contemplates     the     ravages     of        | 
his    body    almost    severely,    and    without    il- 
lusion,     and      watching      the      surgeons      as 
they   scrub   their   hands,   he   says   in   a   grave 
voice: 

''Tell  my  wife  that  my  last  thoughts  were 
of  her  and  our  children.'* 

Ah!    it    was    not    a    veiled    question,    for, 
without  a   moment's   hesitation,   he   allows  us 

to  put  the  mask  over  his  face. 

i 

The  solemn  words  seem  still  to  echo  through        ' 
the  ward: 

"Tell  my  wife  .  .  ." 

That  manly  face  is  not  the  face  of  one  who 
could  be  deceived  by  soft  words  and  consoling 
phrases.     The  white  blouse  turns  away.     The 
surgeon's  eyes  grow  dim  behind  his  spectacles,        1 
and  in  solemn  tones  he  replies:  | 

"We  will  not  fail  to  do  so,  friend."  i 

The  patient's  eyelids  flutter — as  one  waves 
a  handkerchief  from  the  deck  of  a  departing        i 
steamer — then,  breathing  In  the  ether  steadily,       ! 
he  falls  into  a  dark  slumber.  ! 


46  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

He  never  wakes,  and  we  keep  our  promise 
to  him. 

IV 

A  few  days  before  the  death  of  Tricot,  a 
very  annoying  thing  happened  to  him;  a 
small  excrescence,  a  kind  of  pimpel,  appeared 
on  the  side  of  his  nose. 

Tricot  had  suffered  greatly;  only  some 
fragments  of  his  hands  remained;  but,  above 
all,  he  had  a  great  opening  In  his  side,  a  kind 
of  fetid  mouth,  through  which  the  will  to  live 
seemed  to  evaporate. 

Coughing,  spitting,  looking  about  with  wide, 
agonised  eyes  in  search  of  elusive  breath, 
having  no  hands  to  scratch  oneself  with, 
being  unable  to  eat  unaided,  and  further, 
never  having  the  smallest  desire  to  eat — 
could  this  be  called  living?  And  yet  Tricot 
never  gave  in.  He  waged  his  own  war  with 
the  divine  patience  of  a  man  who  had  waged 
the  great  world  war,  and  who  knows  that 
victory  will  not  come  right  away. 

But  Tricot  had  neither  allies  nor  reserves; 
he  was  all  alone,  so  wasted  and  so  exhausted 
that   the    day    came    when    he    passed    almost 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS         47 

imperceptibly  from  the  state  of  a  wounded  to 
that  of  a  dying  man. 

And  it  was  just  at  this  moment  that  th^ 
pimple  appeared. 

Tricot  had  borne  the  greatest  sufferings  cour- 
ageously; but  he  seemed  to  have  no  strength  to 
bear  this  slight  addition  to  his  woes. 

"Monsieur,"  stammered  the  orderly  who 
had  charge  of  him,  utterly  dejected,  "I  tell 
you,  that  pimple  is  the  spark  that  makes  the 
cup    overflow." 

And  in  truth  the  cup  overflowed.  This 
misfortune  was  too  much.  Tricot  began  to 
complain,  and  from  that  moment  I  felt  that 
he  was  doomed. 

I  asked  him  several  times  a  day,  thinking  of 
all  his  wounds:  "How  are  you,  old  fellow?" 
And  he,  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  pimple, 
answered  always : 

"Very  bad,  very  bad  I  The  pimple  is  get- 
ting bigger." 

It  was  true.  The  pimple  had  come  to  a 
head,  and  I  wanted  to  prick  it. 

Tricot,  who  had  allowed  us  to  cut  Into  his 
chest  without  an  anaesthetic,  exclaimed  with 
tears: 


48         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

"No,  no  more  operations!  I  won't  have 
any  more  operations." 

All  day  long  he  lamented  about  his  pimple, 
and  the  following  night  he  died. 

"It  was  a  bad  pimple,"  said  the  orderly; 
"it  was  that  which  killed  him." 

Alas!  It  was  not  a  very  "bad  pimple," 
but  no  doubt  it  killed  him. 


Mehay  was  nearly  killed,  but  he  did  not 
die;  so  no  great  harm  was  done. 

The  bullet  went  through  his  helmet,  and 
only  touched  the  bone.  The  brain  is  all  right. 
So  much  the  better. 

No  sooner  had  Mehay  come  to,  and  hic- 
coughed a  little  in  memory  of  the  chloroform, 
than  he  began  to  look  round  with  interest  at 
all  that  was  happening  about  him. 

Three  days  after  the  operation,  Mehay  got 
up.  It  would  have  been  useless  to  forbid  this 
proceeding.  Mehay  would  have  disobeyed 
orders  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  We  could 
not  even  think  of  taking  away  his  clothes. 
The  brave  man  never  lacks  clothes. 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS         49 

Mehay  accordingly  got  up,  and  his  illness 
was  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Every  morning,  Mehay  rises  before  day- 
break and  seizes  a  broom.  Rapidly  and 
thoroughly,  he  makes  the  ward  as  clean  as 
his  own  heart.  He  never  forgets  any  corner, 
and  he  manages  to  pass  the  brush  gently 
under  the  beds  without  waking  his  sleeping 
comrades,  and  without  disturbing  those  who 
are  in  pain.  Sometimes  Mehay  hands  basins 
or  towels,  and  he  is  as  gentle  as  a  woman 
when  he  helps  to  dress  Vossaert,  whose  limbs 
are  numb  and  painful. 

At  eight  o'clock,  the  ward  is  in  perfect  order, 
and  as  the  dressings  are  about  to  begin,  Mehay 
suddenly  appears  in  a  fine  clean  apron.  He 
watches  my  hands  carefully  as  they  come  and 
go,  and  he  is  always  In  the  right  place  to 
hand  the  dressing  to  the  forceps,  to  pour  out 
the  spirit,  or  to  lend  a  hand  with  a  bandage, 
for  he  very  soon  learned  to  bandage  skilfully. 

He  does  not  say  a  word;  he  just  looks.  The 
bit  of  his  forehead  that  shows  under  his  own 
bandages  is  wrinkled  with  the  earnestness  of 
his  attention — and  he  has  those  blue  marks 
by  which  we  recognise  the  miner. 


50         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Sometimes  it  is  his  turn  to  have  a  dress- 
ing. But  scarcely  is  it  completed  when  he  is 
up  again  with  his  apron  before  him,  si- 
lently busy. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  Mehay  disappears.  He 
has  gone,  perhaps,  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh 
air?  Oh,  no!  Here  he  is  back  again  with  a 
trayful  of  bowls.  And  he  hands  round  the 
soup. 

In  the  evening  he  hands  the  thermometer. 
He  helps  the  orderlies  so  much  that  he  leaves 
them  very  little  to  do. 

All  this  time  the  bones  of  his  skull  are  at 
work  under  his  bandages,  and  the  red  flesh  is 
growing.  But  we  are  not  to  trouble  about 
that:  it  will  manage  all  alone.  The  man, 
however,  cannot  be  idle.  He  works,  and 
trusts  to  his  blood,  "which  is  healthy." 

In  the  evening,  when  the  ward  is  lighted  by 
a  night-light,  and  I  come  in  on  tiptoe  to  give 
a  last  look  round,  I  hear  a  voice  laboriously 
spelling:  "B-0,  Bo;  B-I,  Bi;  N-E,  Ne, 
Bobine."  It  is  Mehay,  learning  to  read  before 
going  to  bed. 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  51 


VI 

A  lamp  has  been  left  alight,  because  the  men 
are  not  asleep  yet,  and  they  are  allowed  to 
smoke  for  a  while.  It  would  be  no  fun  to 
smoke,  unless  one  could  see  the  smoke. 

The  former  bedroom  of  the  mistress  of  the 
house  makes  a  very  light,  very  clean  ward. 
Under  the  draperies  which  have  been  fastened 
up  to  the  ceiling  and  covered  with  sheets,  old 
Louarn  lies  motionless,  waiting  for  his  three 
shattered  limbs  to  mend.  He  is  smoking  a 
cigarette,  the  ash  from  which  falls  upon  his 
breast.  Apologising  for  the  little  heaps  of 
dirt  that  make  his  bed  the  despair  of  the 
orderlies,  he  says  to  me : 

"You  know,  a  Breton  ought  to  be  a  bit 
dirty.^* 

I  touch  the  weight  attached  to  his.  thigh,  and 
he  exclaims : 

"Ma  doue!     Ma  doue!     Caste!     Caste!'* 

These  are  oaths  of  a  kind,  of  his  own 
coining,  which  make  every  one  laugh,  and 
himself  the  first.  He  adds,  as  he  does  every 
day: 


52  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

"Doctor,  you  never  hurt  me  so  much  before 
as  you  have  done  this  time." 
Then  he  laughs  again. 

Lens  is  not  asleep  yet,  but  he  is  as  silent  as 
usual.  He  has  scarcely  uttered  twenty  words 
in  three  weeks. 

In  a  corner,  Mehay  patiently  repeats: 
"P-A,  Pa,"  and  the  orderly  who  is  teaching 
him  to  read  presses  his  forefinger  on  the  soiled 
page. 

I  make  my  way  towards  Croin,  Octave.  I 
sit  down  by  the  bed  in  silence. 

Croin  turns  a  face  half  hidden  by  bandages 
to  me,  and  puts  a  leg  damp  with  sweat  out 
from  under  the  blankets,  for  fever  runs  high 
just  at  this  time.  He  too,  is  silent;  he  knows 
as  well  as  I  do  that  he  is  not  going  on  well; 
but  all  the  same,  he  hopes  I  shall  go  away 
without  speaking  to  him. 

No.  I  must  tell  him.  I  bend  over  him  and 
murmur  certain  things. 

He  listens,  and  his  chin  begins  to  tremble, 
his  boyish  chin,  which  is  covered  with  a  soft, 
fair  down. 

Then,  with  the  accent  of  his  province,  he 
says  in  a  tearful,  hesitating  voice : 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS         53 

"I  have  already  given  an  eye,  must  I  give 
a  hand  too?" 

His  one  remaining  eye  fills  with  tears.  And 
seeing  the  sound  hand,  I  press  it  gently  before 
I  go. 

VII 

When  I  put  my  fingers  near  his  injured  eye, 
Croin  recoils  a  little. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  I  say  to  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  afraid!" 

And  he  adds  proudly: 

"When  a  chap  has  lived  on  Hill  io8,  he 
can't  ever  be  afraid  of  anything  again." 

"Then  why  do  you  wince?" 

"It's  just  my  head  moving  back  of  its  own 
accord.    I  never  think  of  it." 

And  it  is  true;  the  man  is  not  afraid,  but 
his  flesh  recoils. 

*  When  the  bandage  is  properly  adjusted, 
what  remains  visible  of  Groin's  face  is  young, 
agreeable,  charming.  I  note  this  with  satis- 
faction, and  say  to  him: 

"There's  not  much  damage  done  on  this 
side.  We'll  patch  you  up  so  well  that  you 
will  still  be  able  to  make  conquests." 


54         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

He  smiles,  touches  his  bandage,  looks  at  his 
mutilated  arm,  seems  to  lose  himself  for  a 
while  in  memories,  and  murmurs: 

"May  be.  But  the  girls  will  never  come 
after  me  again  as  they  used  to.  .  ^  .'* 

VIII 

"The  skin  is  beginning  to  form  over  the 
new  flesh.  A  few  weeks  more,  and  then  a 
wooden  leg.    You  will  run  along  like  a  rabbit." 

Plaquet  essays  a  little  dry  laugh  which 
means  neither  yes  nor  no,  but  which  reveals  a 
great  timidity,  and  something  else,  a  great 
anxiety. 

"For  Sundays,  you  can  have  an  artificial 
leg.  You  put  a  boot  on  it.  The  trouser  hides 
it  all.     It  won't  show  a  bit." 

The  wounded  man  shakes  his  head  slightly, 
and  listens  with   a   gentle,   incredulous   smile. 

"With  an  artificial  leg,  Plaquet,  you  will, 
of  course,  be  able  to  go  out.  It  will  be  almost 
as  it  was  before." 

Plaquet  shakes  his  head  again,  and  says  In  a 
low  voice: 

"Oh,  I  shall  never  go  out!" 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  55 

"But  with  a  good  artificial  leg,  Plaquet,  you 
will  be  able  to  walk  almost  as  well  as  before. 
Why  shouldn't  you  go  out?" 

Plaquet  hesitates  and  remains  silent. 

"Why?" 

Then  in  an  almost  inaudible  voice  he  re- 
plies: 

"I  will  never  go  out.    I  should  be  ashamed." 

Plaquet  will  wear  a  medal  on  his  breast.  He 
is  a  brave  soldier,  and  by  no  means  a  fool. 
But  there  are  very  complex  feelings  which  we 
must  not  judge  too  hastily. 

IX 

In  the  corner  of  the  ward  there  is  a  little 
plank  bed  which  is  like  all  the  other  little 
beds.  But  buried  between  its  sheets  there  is 
the  smile  of  Mathouillet,  which  is  like  no 
other  smile. 

Mathouillet,  after  throwing  a  good  many 
bombs,  at  last  got  one  himself.  In  this 
disastrous  adventure,  he  lost  part  of  his 
thigh,  received  several  wounds,  and  gradually 
became  deaf.  Such  is  the  fate  of  bombardier- 
grenadier  Mathouillet. 


56         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

The  bombardier-grenadier  has  a  gentle, 
beardless  face,  which  for  many  weeks  must 
have  expressed  great  suffering,  and  which  is 
now  beginning  to  show  a  little  satisfaction. 

But  Mathouillet  hears  so  badly  that  when 
one  speaks  to  him  he  only  smiles  in  answer. 

If  I  come  Into  the  ward,  Mathouillet's 
smile  awaits  and  welcomes  me.  When  the 
dressing  Is  over,  Mathouillet  thanks  me  with 
a  smile.  If  I  look  at  the  temperature  chart, 
Mathouillet's  smile  follows  me,  but  not  ques- 
tioningly;  Mathouillet  has  faith  in  me,  but 
his  smile  says  a  number  of  unspoken  things 
that  I  understand  perfectly.  Conversation  is 
difficult,  on  account  of  this  unfortunate  deaf- 
ness— that  is  to  say,  conversation  as  usually 
carried  on.  But  we  two,  happily,  have  no 
need  of  words.  For  some  time  past,  certain 
smiles  have  been  enough  for  us.  And  Mathouil- 
let smiles,  not  only  with  his  eyes  or  with  his 
lips,  but  with  his  nose,  his  beardless  chin,  his 
broad,  smooth  forehead,  crowned  by  the  pale 
hair  of  the  North,  with  all  his  gentle,  boyish 
face. 

Now  that  Mathouillet  can  get  up,  he  eats 
at  the  table,  with  his  comrades.     To  call  him 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS         57 

to  meals,  Baraffe  utters  a  piercing  cry,  which 
reaches  the  ear  of  the  bombardier-grena- 
dier. 

He  arrives,  shuffling  his  slippers  along  the 
floor,  and  examines  all  the  laughing  faces.  As 
he  cannot  hear,  he  hesitates  to  sit  down,  and 
this  time  his  smile  betrays  embarrassment  and 
confusion. 

Coming  very  close  to  him,  I  say  loudly: 

*'Your  comrades  are  calling  you  to  dinner, 
my  boy." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  replies,  "but  because  they 
know  I  am  deaf,  they  sometimes  try  to  play 
tricks  on  me." 

His  cheeks  flush  warmly  as  he  makes  this 
impromptu  confidence.  Then  he  makes  up  his 
mind  to  sit  down,  after  interrogating  me  with 
his  most  affectionate  smile. 


X 

Once  upon  a  time,  Paga  would  have  been 
called  un  type;  now  he  is  iin  numero.  This 
means  that  he  is  an  original,  that  his  ways  of 
considering  and  practising  life  are  unusual; 
and  as  life  here  is  reduced  entirely  to  terms  of 


5S         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

suffering,  it  means  that  his  manner  of  suffering 
differs  from  that  of  other  people. 

From  the  very  beginning,  during  those  hard 
moments  when  the  wounded  man  lies  plunged 
in  stupor  and  self-forgetfulness,  Paga  distin- 
guished himself  by  some  remarkable  eccen- 
tricities. 

Left  leg  broken,  right  foot  Injured,  such  was 
the  report  on  Paga's  hospital  sheet. 

Now  the  leg  was  not  doing  at  all  well. 
Every  morning,  the  good  head  doctor  stared 
at  the  swollen  flesh  with  his  little  round  dls- 
coloured  eyes  and  said:  "Come,  we  must  just 
wait  till  to-morrow.'* 

But  Paga  did  not  want  to  wait 

Flushed  with  fever,  his  hands  trembling,  his 
southern  accent  exaggerated  by  approaching 
delirium,  he  said,  as  soon  as  we  came  to  see 
him. 

*'My  wish,  my  wish!  You  know  my  wish, 
doctor." 

Then,  lower,  with  a  kind  of  passion : 

*'I  want  you  to  cut  it  off,  you  know.  I 
want  you  to  cut  this  leg.  Oh!  I  shan't  be 
happy  till  it  is  done.  Doctor,  cut  it,  cut  it 
off." 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  59 

We  didn't  cut  it  at  all,  and  Paga's  business 
was  very  successfully  arranged.  I  even  feel 
sure  that  this  leg  became  quite  a  respectable 
limb  again. 

I  am  bound  to  say  Paga  understood  that  he 
had  meddled  with  things  which  did  not  con- 
cern him.  He  nevertheless  continued  to  offer 
imperative  advice  as  to  the  manner  in  which 
he  wished  to  be  nursed. 

"Don't  pull  off  the  dressings!  I  won't 
have  it.  Do  you  hear,  doctor?  Don't  pull. 
I  won't  have  it.'* 

Then  he  would  begin  to  tremble  nervously 
all  over  his  body   and  to  say: 

**J  am  quite  calm!  Oh,  I  am  really  calm. 
See,  Michelet,  see,  Brugneau,  I  am  calm.  Doc- 
tor, see,  I  am  quite  calm." 

Meantime  the  dressings  were  gradually 
loosening  under  a  trickle  of  water,  and  Paga 
muttered  between  his  teeth: 

"He's  pulling,  he's  pulling.  .  .  .  Oh,  the 
cruel  man !     I  won't  have  it,  I  won't  have  it.'* 

Then  suddenly,  with  flaming  cheeks: 

"That's  right.  That's  right!  See,  Michelet, 
see,  Brugneau:  the  dressings  have  come  away. 
Sergeant,  Sergeant,  the  dressings  are  loosened." 


60         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

He  clapped  his  hands,  possessed  by  a  fur- 
tive joy;  then  he  suddenly  became  conscious, 
and  with  a  deep  furrow  between  his  brows,  he 
began  to  give  orders  again. 

*'Not  any  tincture  of  iodine  to-day,  doctor. 
Take  away  those  forceps,  doctor,  take  them 
away.'' 

Meanwhile  the  implacable  forceps  did  their 
work,  the  tincture  of  iodine  performed  its 
chilly  function;  then  Paga  yelled: 

^'Quickly,  quickly.    Kiss  me,  kiss  me." 

With  his  arms  thrown  out  like  tentacles,  he 
beat  upon  the  air,  and  seized  haphazard  upon, 
the  first  blouse  that  passed.  Then  he  would 
embrace  it  frantically. 

Thus  it  happened  that  he  once  showered 
kisses  on  Michelet's  hands,  objects  by  no 
means  suitable  for  such  a  demonstration. 
Michelet  said,  laughing: 

"Come,  stop  it;  my  hands  are  dirty." 

And  then  poor  Paga  began  to  kiss  Michelet's 
bare,  hairy  arms,  saying  distractedly: 

"If  your  hands  are  dirty,  your  arms  are  all 
right." 

Alas,  what  has  become  of  all  those  who, 
during  days   and  nights  of  patient  labour,   I 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  61 

saw  gradually  shaking  off  the  dark  empire  of 
the  night  and  coming  back  again  to  joy?  What 
has  become  of  the  smouldering  faggot  which 
an  ardent  breath  finally  kindled  Into  flame? 

What  became  of  you,  precious  lives,  poor 
wonderful  souls,  for  whom  I  fought  so  many 
obscure  great  battles,  and  who  went  off  again 
into  the  realm  of  adventure? 

You,  Paga,  little  fellow,  where  are  you?  Do 
you  remember  the  time  when  I  used  to  dress 
your  two  wounds  alternately,  and  when  you 
said  to  me  with  great  severity: 

"The  leg  to-day,  only  the  leg.  It's  not  the 
day  for  the  foot." 

XI 

Sergeant  Lecolle  is  distinguished  by  a  huge 
black  beard,  which  fails  to  give  a  ferocious 
expression  to  the  gentlest  face  in  the  world. 

He  arrived  the  day  little  Delporte  died,  and 
scarcely  had  he  emerged  from  the  dark  sleep 
when,  opening  his  eyes,  he  saw  Delporte  die. 

I  went  to  speak  to  him  several  times.  He 
looked  so  exhausted,  his  black  beard  was  so 
mournful  that  I  kept  on  telling  him:  "Ser- 
geant, your  wound  is  not  serious.'* 


62  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Each  time  he  shook  his  head  as  If  to  say 
that  he  took  but  little  interest  In  the  matter, 
and  tried  to  close  his  eyes. 

Lecolle  Is  too  nervous;  he  was  not  able  to 
close  his  eyes,  and  he  saw  Delporte  dead,  and 
he  had  been  obliged  to  witness  all  Delporte's 
death  agony;  for  when  one  has  a  wound  in 
the  right  shoulder,  one  can  only  lie  upon  the 
left  shoulder. 

The  ward  was  full,  I  could  not  change  the 
sergeant's  place,  and  yet  I  should  have  liked 
to  let  him  be  alone  all  day  with  his  own  pain. 

Now  Lecolle  is  better;  he  feels  better 
without  much  exuberance,  with  a  seriousness 
which  knows  and  foresees  the  bufferings  of 
Fate. 

Lecolle  was  a  stenographer  "in  life."  We 
are  no  longer  "in  life,"  but  the  good  stenog- 
rapher retains  his  principles.  When  his  wounds 
are  dressed,  he  looks  carefully  at  the  little 
watch  on  his  wrist. 

He  moans  at  Intervals,  and  stops  suddenly 
to  say: 

"It  has  taken  fifty  seconds  to-day  to  loosen 
the  dressings.  Yesterday,  you  took  sixty-two 
seconds." 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS         6S 

His  first  words  after  the  operation  were: 
"Will  you  please  tell  me  how  many  minutes 
I  was  unconscious?" 

XII 

I  first  saw  Derancourt  In  the  room  adjoining 
the  chapel.  A  band  of  crippled  men,  returning 
from  Germany  after  a  long  captivity,  had  just 
been  brought  in  there. 

There  were  some  fifty  of  them,  all  looking 
with  delighted  eyes  at  the  walls,  the  benches, 
the  telephone,  all  the  modest  objects  in  this 
waiting-room,  objects  which  are  so  much  more 
attractive  under  the  light  of  France  than  in 
harsh  exile. 

The  waiting-room  seemed  to  have  been 
transformed  into  a  museum  of  misery:  there 
were  blind  men,  legless  and  armless  men, 
paralysed  men,  their  faces  ravaged  by  fire  and 
powder. 

A  big  fellow  said,  lifting  his  deformed  arm 
with  an  effort: 

"I  tricked  them;  they  thought  to  the  end 
that  I  was  really  paralysed.  I  look  well,  but 
that's  because  they  sent  us  to  Constance  for 
the  last  week,  to  fatten  us  up." 


64>         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

A  dark,  thin  man  was  walking  to  and  fro, 
towing  his  useless  foot  after  him  by  the  help 
of  a  string  which  ran  down  his  trouser  leg; 
and  he  laughed: 

"I  walk  more  with  my  fist  than  with  my 
foot.  Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  who  would  like 
to  pull  Punch's  string?" 

All  wore  strange  costumes,  made  up  of  mil- 
itary clothing  and  patched  civilian  garments. 

On  a  bench  sat  fifteen  or  twenty  men  with 
about  a  dozen  legs  between  them.  It  was 
among  these  that  I  saw  Derancourt.  He 
was  holding  his  crutches  In  one  hand  and 
looking  round  him,  stroking  his  long  fair 
moustache  absently. 

Derancourt  became  my  friend. 

His  leg  had  been  cut  off  at  the  thigh,  and 
this  had  not  yet  healed;  he  had,  further,  a 
number  of  other  wounds  which  had  closed 
more  or  less  during  his  captivity. 

Derancourt  never  talked  of  himself,  much 
less  of  his  misfortune.  I  knew  from  his  com- 
rades that  he  had  fought  near  Longwy,  his 
native  town,  and  that  he  had  lain  grievously 
wounded  for  nine  days  on  the  battlefield.    He 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  65 

had  seen  his  father,  who  had  come  to  succour 
him,  killed  at  his  side;  then  he  had  lain 
beside  the  corpse,  tortured  by  a  delirious 
dream  in  which  nine  days  and  nine  nights 
had  followed  one  upon  the  other,  like  a  dizzi- 
ness of  alternate  darkness  and  dazzling  light. 
In  the  mornings,  he  sucked  the  wet  grass 
he  clutched  when  he  stretched  out  his 
hands. 

Afterwards  he  had  suffered  in  Germany, 
and  finally  he  had  come  back  to  France, 
mutilated,  covered  with  wounds,  and  knowing 
that  his  wife  and  children  were  left  without 
help  and  without  resources  in  the  invaded 
territory. 

Of  all  this  Derancourt  said  not  a  word.  He 
apparently  did  not  know  how  to  complain,  and 
he  contemplated  the  surrounding  wretched- 
ness with  a  grave  look,  full  of  experience, 
which  would  have  seemed  a  little  cold  but 
for  the  tremulous  mobility  of  his  features. 

Derancourt  never  played,  never  laughed. 
He  sought  solitude,  and  spent  hours,  turning 
his  head  slowly  from  side  to  side,  contemplat- 
ing the  walls  and  the  ceiling  like  one  who 
sees  things  within  himself. 


66         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

The  day  came  when  we  had  to  operate  on 
Derancourt,  to  make  his  stump  of  a  thigh 
serviceable. 

He  was  laid  on  the  table.  He  remained 
calm  and  self-controlled  as  always,  looking  at 
the  preparations  for  the  operation  with  a  kind 
of  indifference. 

We  put  the  chloroform  pad  under  his  nose; 
he  drew  two  or  three  deep  breaths,  and  then 
a  strange  thing  happened:  Derancourt  began 
to  sob  in  a  terrible  manner,  and  to  talk  of 
all  those  things  he  had  never  mentioned. 
The  grief  he  had  suppressed  for  months  over- 
flowed, or  rather,  rushed  out  in  desperate, 
heartrending  lamentations. 

It  was  not  the  disorderly  Intoxication,  the 
muscular,  animal  rebellion  of  those  who  are 
thrown  into  this  artificial  sleep.  It  was  the 
sudden  break-up  of  an  overstrained  will  under 
a  slight  shock.  For  months  Derancourt  had 
braced  himself  against  despair,  and  now,  all 
of  a  sudden,  he  gave  way,  and  abandoned 
himself  to  poignant  words  and  tears.  The 
flood  withdrew  suddenly,  leaving  the  horrible, 
chaotic  depths  beneath  the  sea  visible. 

We  ceased  scrubbing  our  hands,  and  stood 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  67 

aghast  and  deeply  moved,  full  of  sadness  and 
respect. 

Then  some  one  exclaimed: 

*'Quick!  quick!  More  chloroform !  Stupefy 
him  outright,  let  him  sleep." 

XIII 

*'But  a  man  can't  be  paralysed  by  a  little 
hole  In  his  back!  I  tell  you  It  was  only  a 
bullet.  You  must  take  It  out,  doctor.  Take 
It  out,  and  I  shall  be  all  right." 

Thus  said  a  Zouave,  who  had  been  lying 
helpless  for  three  days  on  his  bed. 

**If  you  knew  how  strong  I  am !  Look  at 
my  arms !  No  one  could  unhook  a  bag  like 
me,  and  heave  It  over  my  shoulder — tock! 
A  hundred  kilos — with  one   jerk!" 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  muscular  torso, 
and  his  face  expressed  pity,  regret,  embarrass- 
ment, and,  perhaps,  a  certain  wish  to  go 
away. 

*'But  this  wretched  bullet  prevents  me  from 
moving  my  legs.  You  must  take  It  out,  doc- 
tor, you  must  take  It  out!" 

The  doctor  glances  at  the  paralysed  legs. 


68  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

and  the  swollen  belly,  already  lifeless.  He 
knows  that  the  bullet  broke  the  spine, 
and  cut  through  the  marrow  which  sent 
law  and  order  into  all  this  now  inanimate 
flesh. 

"Operate,  doctor.  Look  you,  a  healthy  chap 
like  me  would  soon  get  well." 

The  doctor  stammers  vague  sentences:  the 
operation  would  be  too  serious  for  the  present 
.  .  .  better  wait.  .  .  . 

"No,  no.  Never  fear.  My  health  is  first- 
rate.  Don't  be  afraid,  the  operation  is  bound 
to  be  a  success." 

His  rugged  face  is  contracted  by  his  fixed 
Idea.  His  voice  softens;  blind  confidence  and 
supplication  give  it  an  unusual  tone.  His 
heavy  eyebrows  meet  and  mingle  under  the 
stress  of  his  indomitable  will;  his  soul  makes 
such  an  effort  that  the  immobility  of  his  legs 
seems  suddenly  intolerable.  Heavens!  Can 
a  man  will  so  intensely,  and  yet  be  powerless 
to  control  his  own  body? 

"Oh,  operate,  operate!  You  will  see  how 
pleased  I  shall  be!" 

The  doctor  twists  the  sheet  round  his  fore- 
finger; then,  hearing  a  wounded  man  groan- 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  69 

Ing  In  the  next  ward,  he  gets  up,  says  he  will 
come  back  presently,  and  escapes. 

XIV 

The  colloquy  between  the  rival  gods  took 
place  at  the  foot  of  the  great  staircase. 

The  Arab  soldier  had  just  died.  It  was  the 
Arab  one  used  to  see  under  a  shed,  seated 
gravely  on  the  ground  in  the  midst  of  other 
magnificent  Arabs.  In  those  days  they  had 
boots  of  crimson  leather,  and  majestic  red 
mantles.  They  used  to  sit  In  a  circle,  contem- 
plating from  under  their  turbans  the  vast 
expanse  of  mud  watered  by  the  skies  of 
Artois.  To-day,  they  wear  the  ochre  helmet, 
and  show  the  profiles  of  Saracen  warriors. 

The  Algerian  has  just  been  killed,  kicked 
in  the  belly  by  his  beautiful  white  horse. 

In  the  ambulance  there  was  a  Mussulman 
orderly,  a  well-to-do  tradesman,  who  had  vol- 
unteered for  the  work.  He,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  extremely  European,  nay,  Parisian; 
but  a  plump,  malicious  smile  showed  Itself  in 
the  midst  of  his  crisp  grey  beard,  and  he  had 
the   look   In   the    eyes   peculiar   to   those   who 


70  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

come  from  the  other  side  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. 

Rashid  "behaved  very  well."  He  had 
found  native  words  when  tending  the  dying 
man,  and  had  lavished  on  him  the  consolations 
necessary  to  those  of  his  country. 

When  the  Algerian  was  dead,  he  arranged 
the  winding-sheet  himself,  in  his  own  fashion; 
then  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  set  out  in 
search  of  Monet  and  Renaud. 

For  lack  of  space,  we  had  no  mortuary  at 
the  time  in  the  ambulance.  Corpses  were 
placed  in  the  chapel  of  the  cemetery  while 
awaiting  burial.  The  military  burial-ground 
had  been  established  within  the  precincts  of 
the  church,  close  by  the  civilian  cemetery,  and 
in  a  few  weeks  it  had  invaded  it  like  a  cancer 
and  threatened  to  devour  it. 

Rashid  had  thought  of  everything,  and  this 
was  why  he  went  in  search  of  Monet  and 
Renaud,  Catholic  priests  and  ambulance  order- 
lies of  the  second  class. 

The  meeting  took  place  at  the  foot  of  the 
great  staircase.  Leaning  over  the  balustrade, 
I  listened,  and  watched  the  colloquy  of  the 
rival  gods. 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS         71 

Monet  was  thirty  years  old;  he  had  fine, 
sombre  eyes,  and  a  stiff  beard,  from  which 
a  pipe  emerged.  Renaud  carried  the  thin 
face  of  a  seminarist  a  little  on  one  side. 

Monet  and  Renaud  listened  gravely,  as  be- 
came people  who  were  deciding  in  the  Name 
of  the  Father.  Rashid  was  pleading  for  his 
dead  Arab  with  supple  eloquence,  wrapped  in 
a  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke: 

*'We  cannot  leave  the  Arab's  corpse  under  \ 
a  wagon,  in  the  storm.  .  .  .  This  man  died 
for  France,  at  his  post.  .  .  .  He  had  a  right 
to  all  honours,  and  it  was  hard  enough  as  it 
was  that  he  could  not  have  the  obsequies  he 
would  surely  have  had  in  his  own  country." 

Monet  nodded  approvingly,  and  Renaud,  his 
mouth  half  open,  was  seeking  some  formula. 

It  came,  and  this  was  it: 

"Very  well.  Monsieur  Rashid,  take  him  Into 
the  church;  that  is  God's  house  for  every  one." 

Rashid  bowed  with  perfect  deference,  and 
went  back  to  his  dead. 

Oh,  he  arranged  everything  very  well!  He 
had  made  this  funeral  a  personal  matter.  He 
was  the  family,  the  master  of  the  ceremonies, 
almost  the  priest. 


72  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

The  Algerian's  body  accordingly  lay  In  the 
chapel,  covered  with  the  old  faded  flag  and 
a  handful  of  chrysanthemums. 

It  was  here  the  bearers  came  to  take  it, 
and  carry  It  to  consecrated  ground,  to  lie 
among  the  other  comrades. 

Monet  and  Renaud  were  with  us  when  it 
was  lowered  Into  the  grave.  Rashid  repre- 
sented the  dead  man's  kindred  with  much 
dignity.  He  held  something  in  his  hand 
which  he  planted  in  the  ground  before  going 
away.  It  was  that  crescent  of  plain  deal  at 
the  end  of  a  stick  which  Is  still  to  be  seen  in 
the  midst  of  the  worm-eaten  crosses,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  belfry  of  L . 

There  the  same  decay  works  towards  the 
intermingling  and  the  reconciliation  of  ancient 
symbols  and  ancient  dogmas. 

XV 

Nogue  is  courageous,  but  Norman;  this 
gives  to  courage  a  special  form,  which  excludes 
neither  reserve,  nor  prudence,  nor  moderation 
of  language. 

On  the  day  when  he  was  wounded,  he  bore 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  73 

a  preliminary  operation  with  perfect  calm. 
Lifting  up  his  shattered  arm,  I  said: 

"Are  you  suffering  very  much?''  And  he 
barely  opened  his  lips  to  reply: 

"Well  .  .  .  perhaps  a  bit." 

Fever  came  the  following  days,  and  with  It 
a  certain  discomfort.  Nogue  could  not  eat, 
and  when  asked  If  he  did  not  feel  rather 
hungry,  he  shook  his  head: 

**I  don't  think  so." 

Well,  the  arm  was  broken  very  high  up, 
the  wound  looked  unhealthy,  the  fever  ran 
high,  and  we  made  up  our  minds  that  It  was 
necessary  to  come  to  a  decision. 

"My  poor  Nogue,"  I  said,  "we  really  can't 
do  anything  with  that  arm  of  yours.  Be 
sensible.     Let  us  take  it  off." 

If  we  had  waited  for  his  answer,  Nogue 
would  have  been  dead  by  now.  His  face 
expressed  great  dissatisfaction,  but  he  said 
neither  yes  nor  no. 

".Don't  be  afraid,  Nogue.  I  will  guarantee 
the  success  of  the  operation." 

Then  he  asked  to  make  his  will.  When 
the  will  had  been  made,  Nogue  was  laid 
upon    the    table    and    operated    upon,    with- 


74         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

out  having  formulated  either  consent  or  re- 
fusal. 

When  the  first  dressing  was  made,  Nogue 
looked  at  his  bleeding  shoulder,  and  said: 

"I  suppose  you  couldn't  have  managed  to 
leave  just  a  little  bit  of  arm?" 

After  a  few  days  the  patient  was  able  to 
sit  up  in  an  arm-chair.  His  whole  being  bore 
witness  to  a  positive  resurrection,  but  his 
tongue  remained  cautious. 

''Well,  now,  you  see,  you're  getting  on 
capitally." 

"Hum  .  .   .  might  be  better." 

Never  could  he  make  up  his  mind  to  give 
his  whole-hearted  approval,  even  after  the 
event,  to  the  decision  which  had  saved  his 
life.    When  we  said  to  him: 

^^You're  all  right.  We've  done  the  business 
for  youF'  he  would  not  commit  himself. 

"We  shall  see,  we  shall  see." 

He  got  quite  well,  and  we  sent  him  into 
the  interior.  Since  then,  he  has  written  to 
us,  "business  letters,"  prudent  letters  which 
he  signs  "a  poor  mutilated  fellow." 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  75 


XVI 

Lapolnte  and  Roplteau  always  meet  in  the 
dressing  ward.  Ropiteau  is  brought  in  on  a 
stretcher,  and  Lapointe  arrives  on  foot,  jaunt- 
ily, holding  up  his  elbow,  which  is  going  on 
'*as  well  as  possible." 

Lying  on  the  table,  the  dressings  removed 
from  his  thigh,  Ropiteau  waits  to  be  tended, 
looking  at  a  winter  fly  walking  slowly  along 
the  ceiling,  like  an  old  man  bowed  down  with 
sorrow. 

As  soon  as  Ropiteau's  wounds  are  laid  bare, 
Lapointe,  who  is  versed  in  these  matters,  opens 
the  conversation. 

*'What  do  they  put  on  it?" 

*'Well,  only  yellow  spirit." 

"That's  the  strongest  of  all.  It  stings,  but 
it  is  first-rate  for  strengthening  the  flesh.  I 
always  get  ether." 

"Ether  stinks  so !" 

"Yes,  it  stinks,  but  one  gets  used  to  it. 
It  warms  the  blood.  Don't  you  have  tubes 
any  longer?" 

"They  took  out  the  last  on  Tuesday." 


76         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

''Mine  have  been  taken  away,  too.  Walt 
a  minute,  old  chap,  let  me  look  at  it.  Does 
it  itch?" 

"Yes,  it  feels  like  rats  gnawing  at  me." 

*'If  it  feels  like  rats,  it's  all  right.  Mine 
feels  like  rats,  too.  Don't  you  want  to 
scratch?" 

*'Yes,  but  they  say  I  mustn't." 

*'No,  of  course,  you  mustn't.  .  .  .  But  you 
can  always  tap  on  the  dressing  a  little  with 
your  finger.   That  is  a  relief." 

Lapointe  leans  over  and  examines  Ropi- 
teau's  large  w^ound. 

"Old  chap,  it's  getting  on  jolly  well.  Same 
here;  I'll  show  you  presently.  It's  red,  the 
skin  is  beginning  to  grow  again.  But  it  is 
thin,  very  thin." 

Lapointe  sits  down  to  have  his  dressing 
cut  away,  then  he  makes  a  half  turn  towards 
Ropiteau. 

"You  see — getting  on  famously." 

Ropiteau  admires  unreservedly. 

"Yes,  you're  right.     It  looks  first-rate." 

"And  you  know  .  .  .  such  a  beastly  mess 
came  out  of  it." 

At  this  moment,  the  busy  forceps  cover  up 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  77 

the  wounds  with  the  dressing,  and  the  opera- 
tion comes  to  an  end. 

*'So  long!'*  says  Lapointe  to  his  elbow,  cast- 
ing a  farewell  glance  at  it.  And  he  adds,  as 
he  gets  to  the  door: 

*'Now  there  are  only  the  damned  fingers 
that  won't  get  on.  But  I  don't  care.  I've 
made  up  my  mind  to  be  a  postman." 

XVII 

Bouchenton  was  not  very  communicative. 
We  knew  nothing  of  his  past  history.  As  to 
his  future  plans,  he  revealed  them  by  one  day 
presenting  to  the  head  doctor  for  his  signature 
a  paper  asking  leave  to  open  a  Moorish  cafe 
at  Medea  after  his  recovery,  a  request  the 
head  doctor  felt  himself  unable  to  endorse. 

Bouchenton  had  undergone  a  long  martyr- 
dom in  order  to  preserve  an  arm  from  which 
the  bone  had  been  partially  removed,  but 
from  which  a  certain  amount  of  work  might 
still  be  expected.  He  screamed  like  the 
others,  and  his  cry  was  "Mohabdi!  Mo- 
habdi!"  When  the  forceps  came  near,  he 
cried:      *'Don't  put   them   in!"      And   after 


78  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

this  he  maintained  a  silence  made  up  of 
dignity  and  indolence.  During  the  day  he 
was  to  be  seen  wandering  about  the  wards, 
holding  up  his  ghostly  muffled  arm  with  his 
sound  hand.  In  the  evening,  he  learned  to 
play  draughts,  because  it  is  a  serious,  silent 
game,  and  requires  consideration. 

Now  one  day  when  Bouchenton,  seated  on 
a  chair,  was  waiting  for  his  wound  to  be 
dressed,  the  poor  adjutant  Figuet  began  to 
complain  in  a  voice  that  was  no  more  than 
the  shadow  of  a  voice,  just  as  his  body  was 
no  more  than  the  shadow  of  a  body. 

Figuet  was  crawling  at  the  time  up  the 
slopes  of  a  Calvary  where  he  was  soon  to  fall 
once  more,  never  to  rise  again. 

The  most  stupendous  courage  and  endurance 
foundered  then  in  a  despair  for  which  there 
seemed  henceforth  to  be  no  possible  allevia- 
tion. 

Figuet,  I  say,  began  to  complain,  and  every 
one  in  the  ward  feigned  to  be  engrossed  in 
his  occupation,  and  to  hear  nothing,  because 
when  such  a  man  began  to  groan,  the  rest 
felt  that  the  end  of  all  things  had  come. 

Bouchenton  turned  his  head,  looked  at  the 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  79 

adjutant,  seized  his  flabby  arm  carefully  with 
his  right  hand,  and  set  out.  Walking  with 
little  short  steps  he  came  to  the  table  where 
the  suffering  man  lay. 

Stretching  out  his  neck,  his  great  bowed 
body  straining  in  an  effort  of  attention,  he 
looked  at  the  wounds,  the  pus,  the  soiled 
bandages,  the  worn,  thin  face,  and  his  own 
wooden  visage  laboured  under  the  stress  of 
all  kinds  of  feelings. 

Then  Bouchenton  did  a  very  simple  thing; 
he  relaxed  his  hold  on  his  own  boneless  arm, 
held  out  his  right  hand  to  Figuet,  seized  his 
transparent  fingers  and  held  them  tightly 
clasped. 

The  adjutant  ceased  groaning.  As  long  as 
the  silent  pressure  lasted,  he  ceased  to  com- 
plain, ceased  perhaps  to  suffer.  Bouchenton 
kept  his  right  hand  there  as  long  as  it  was 
necessary. 

I  saw  this,  Bouchenton,  my  brother.  I 
will  not  forget  It.  And  I  saw,  too,  your 
aching,  useless  left  arm,  which  you  had 
been  obliged  to  abandon  in  order  to  have  a 
hand  to  give,  hanging  by  your  side  like  a 
limp  rag. 


i 


A. 


80         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 


XVIII 

To  be  over  forty  years  old,  to  be  a  trades- 
man of  repute,  well  known  throughout  one^s 
quarter,  to  be  at  the  head  of  a  prosperous 
provision-dealer's  business,  and  to  get  two 
fragments  of  shell — in  the  back  and  the  left 
buttock  respectively — is  really  a  great  mis- 
fortune; yet  this  is  what  happened  to  M. 
Levy,   infantryman  and  Territorial. 

I  never  spoke  familiarly  to  M.  Levy,  because 
of  his  age  and  his  air  of  respectability;  and 
perhaps,  too,  because,  in  his  case,  I  felt  a  great 
and  special  need  to  preserve  my  authority. 

Monsieur  Levy  was  not  always  *'a  good 
patient."  When  I  first  approached  him,  he 
implored  me  not  to  touch  him  "at  any  price." 

I  disregarded  these  injunctions,  and  did 
what  was  necessary.  Throughout  the  process, 
Monsieur  Levy  was  snoring,  be  it  said.  But 
he  woke  up  at  last,  uttered  one  or  two  piercing 
cries,  and  stigmatised  me  as  a  "brute."  All 
riffht. 

Then  I  showed  him  the  big  pieces  of  cast- 
iron  I   had  removed  from  his  back  and  his 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  81 

buttock  respectively.  Monsieur  Levy's  eyes 
at  once  filled  with  tears;  he  murmured  a  few 
feeling  words  about  his  family,  and  then 
pressed  my  hands  warmly:  "Thank  you, 
thank  you,  dear  Doctor." 

Since  then,  Monsieur  Levy  has  suffered  a 
good  deal,  I  must  admit.  There  are  the 
plugs!  And  those  abominable  india-rubber 
tubes  we  push  into  the  wounds!  Monsieur 
Levy,  kneeling  and  prostrating  himself,  his 
head  in  his  bolster,  suffered  every  day  and 
for  several  days  without  stoicism  or  resig- 
nation. I  was  called  an  "assassin"  and 
also  on  several  occasions,  a  "brute."  All 
right. 

However,  as  I  was  determined  that  Mon- 
sieur Levy  should  get  well,  I  renewed  the  plugs, 
and  looked  sharply  after  the  famous  india- 
rubber  tubes. 

The  time  came  when  my  hands  were  warmly 
pressed  and  my  patient  said:  "Thank  you, 
thank  you,  dear  Doctor,"  every  day. 

At  last  Monsieur  Levy  ceased  to  suffer,  and 
confined  himself  to  the  peevish  murmurs  of 
a  spoilt  beauty  or  a  child  that  has  been 
scolded.    But  now  no  one  takes  him  seriously. 


82         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

He  has  become  the  delight  of  the  ward;  he 
laughs  so  heartily  when  the  dressing  is  over, 
he  is  naturally  so  gay  and  playful,  that  I  am 
rather  at  a  loss  as  to  the  proper  expression 
to  assume  when,  alluding  to  the  past,  he  says, 
with  a  look  in  which  good  nature,  pride,  sim- 
plicity, and  a  large  proportion  of  playful 
malice  are  mingled: 

"I  suffered  so  much!  so  much!'* 


XIX 

He  was  no  grave,  handsome  Arab,  looking 
as  if  he  had  stepped  from  the  pages  of  the 
^'Arabian  Nights,"  but  a  kind  of  little  brown 
monster  with  an  overhanging  forehead  and 
ugly,  scanty  hair. 

He  lay  upon  the  table,  screaming,  because 
his  abdomen  was  very  painful  and  his  hip  was 
all  tumefied.  What  could  we  say  to  him? 
He  could  understand  nothing;  he  was  strange, 
terrified,  pitiable.  .  .  . 

At  my  wits'  ends,  I  took  out  a  cigarette  and 
placed  it  between  his  lips.  His  whole  face 
changed.  He  took  hold  of  the  cigarette  deli- 
cately  between   two   bony   fingers;   he   had    a 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  83 

way  of  holding  it  which  was  a  marvel  of 
aristocratic  elegance. 

While  we  finished  the  dressing,  the  poor 
fellow  smoked  slowly  and  gravely,  with  all 
the  distinction  of  an  Oriental  prince;  then, 
with  a  negligent  gesture,  he  threw  away 
the  cigarette,  of  which  he  had  only  smoked 
half. 

Presently,  suddenly  becoming  an  animal,  he 
spit  upon  my  apron,  and  kissed  my  hand  like 
a  dog,  repeating  something  which  sounded  like 
"Bouia!  Bouia!" 


XX 

Gautreau  looked  like  a  beast  of  burden.  He 
was  heavy,  square,  solid  of  base  and  majestic 
of  neck  and  throat.  What  he  could  carry  on 
his  back  would  have  crushed  an  ordinary  man; 
he  had  big  bones,  so  hard  that  the  fragment  of 
shell  which  struck  him  on  the  skull  only  cracked 
it,  and  got  no  further  into  it.  Gautreau  arrived 
at  the  hospital  alone,  on  foot;  he  sat  down  on 
a  chair  in  the  corner,  saying: 

"No  need  to  hurry;  it's  only  a  scratch." 


84         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

We  gave  him  a  cup  of  tea  with  rum  in  it, 
and  he  began  to  hum: 

En  courant  par  les  epeignes 

Je  m'etios  fait  un  ecourchon, 

Et  en  courant  par  les  epeignes 

Et   en   courant   apres   nof    couchon, 

"Ah!"  said  Monsieur  Boissin,  ^^you  are  a 
man!     Come  here,  let  me  see." 

Gautreau  went  into  the  operating  ward 
saying : 

*'It  feels  queer  to  be  walking  on  dry  ground 
when  you've  just  come  off  the  slime.  You 
see:  it's  only  a  scratch.  But  one  never 
knows:  there  may  be  some  bits  left  in  it." 

Dr.  Boussin  probed  the  wound,  and  felt 
the  cracked  bone.  He  was  an  old  surgeon 
who  had  his  own  ideas  about  courage  and 
pain.     He  made  up   his  mind. 

*'I  am  in  a  hurry;  you  are  a  man.  There 
is  just  a  little  something  to  be  done  to  you. 
Kneel  down  there  and  don't  stir." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Gautreau  was  on  his 
knees,  holding  on  to  the  leg  of  the  table.  His 
head  was  covered  with  blood-stained  ban- 
dages,  and  Dr.   Boussin,   chisel  in  hand,  was 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  85 

tapping  on  his  skull  with  the  help  of  a  little 
mallet,  like  a  sculptor.     Gautreau  exclaimed: 

"Monsieur  Bassin,  Monsieur  Bassin,  you're 
hurting  me." 

"Not  Bassin,  but  Boussin,"  replied  the  old 
man  calmly. 

"Well,  Boussin,  if  you  like." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Gautreau 
suddenly  added: 

"Monsieur  Bassin,  you  are  killing  me  with 
these  antics." 

"No  fear!" 

"Monsieur  Bassin,  I  tell  you  you're  killing 


me. 


"Just  a  second  more." 

"Monsieur  Bassin,  you're  driving  nails  Into 
my  head,  it's  a  shame." 

"I've  almost  finished." 

"Monsieur  Bassin,  I  can't  stand  any  more." 

"It's  all  over  now,"  said  the  surgeon,  laying 
down  his  instruments. 

Gautreau's  head  was  swathed  with  cotton 
wool  and  he  left  the  ward. 

"The  old  chap  means  well,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing, "but  fancy  knocking  like  that  .  .  . 
wnth    a    hammer!     It's    not   that   it    hurts    so 


86         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

much;  the  pain  was  no  great  matter.  But  it 
kills  one,  that  sort  of  thing,  and  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  stand  that.'* 

XXI 

There  is  only  one  man  in  the  world  who  can 
hold  Hourticq's  leg,  and  that  is  Monet. 

Hourticq,  who  is  a  Southerner,  cries  de- 
spairingly: "Oh,  cette  janimbe,  cette 
jammher^  And  his  anxious  eyes  look  eagerly 
round  for  some  one :  not  his  doctor,  but  his 
orderly,  Monet.  Whatever  happens,  the  doc- 
tor will  always  do  those  things  which  doctors 
do.  Monet  is  the  only  person  who  can  take 
the  heel  and  then  the  foot  in  both  hands, 
raise  the  leg  gently,  and  hold  it  in  the  air  as 
long  as  it  is  necessary. 

There  are  people,  it  seems,  who  think  this 
notion  ridiculous.  They  are  all  jealous  per- 
sons who  envy  Monet's  position  and  would 
like  to  show  that  they  too  know  how  to  hold 
Hourticq's  leg  properly.  But  it  is  not  my 
business  to  show  favour  to  the  ambitious.  As 
soon  as  Hourticq  is  brought  in,  I  call  Monet. 
If  Monet  is  engaged,  well,  I  wait.  He  comes, 
lays  hold  of  the  leg,  and  Hourticq  ceases  to 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  87 

lament.  It  Is  sometimes  a  long  business, 
very  long;  big  drops  of  sweat  come  out  on 
Monet's  forehead.  But  I  know  that  he 
would  not  give  up  his  place  for  anything  in 
the  world. 

When  Mazy  arrived  at  the  hospital,  Hour- 
ticq,  who  is  no  egoist,  said  to  him  at  once  in 
a  low  tone: 

*'Yours  is  a  leg  too,  isn't  it?  You  must 
try  to  get  Monet  to  hold  it  for  you." 

XXII 

If  Bouchard  were  not  so  bored,  he  would 
not  be  very  wretched,  for  he  is  very  courage- 
ous, and  he  has  a  good  temper.  But  he  is 
terribly  bored,  in  his  gentle,  uncomplaining 
fashion.  He  is  too  ill  to  talk  or  play  games. 
He  cannot  sleep;  he  can  only  contemplate  the 
wall,  and  his  own  thoughts  which  creep  slowly 
along  it,  like  caterpillars. 

In  the  morning,  I  bring  a  catheter  with  me, 
and  when  Bouchard's  wounds  are  dressed,  I 
apply  it,  for  unfortunately,  he  can  no  longer 
perform  certain   functions   independently. 

Bouchard  has  crossed  his  hands  behind  the 


88  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

nape  of  his  neck,  and  watches  the  process  with 

a  certain  interest.     I  ask: 

*'Did  I  hurt  you?     Is  it  very  unpleasant?" 
Bouchard    gives    a    melancholy    smile    and 

shakes  his  head: 

"Oh,    no,    not    at    all!     In    fact    it    rather 

amuses   me.     It   makes    a    few   minutes   pass. 

The  day  is  so  long.  .  .  ." 

XXIII 

Thoughts  of  Prosper  Ruffin 

.  .  .  God!  How  awful  it  is  in  this  car- 
riage! Who  is  it  who  is  groaning  like  that? 
It's  maddening!  And  then,  all  this  would 
never  have  happened  if  they  had  only  brought 
the  coffee  at  the  right  time.  Well  now,  a 
wretched  77  .  .  .  oh,  no!  Who  is  it  who 
is  groaning  like  that?  God,  another  jolt! 
No,  no,  man,  we  are  not  salad.  Take  care 
there.     My  kidneys  are  all  smashed. 

Ah !  now  something  is  dripping  on  my 
nose.  Hi!  You  up  there,  what's  happening? 
He  doesn't  answ^er.  I  suppose  it's  blood,  all 
this  mess. 

Now  again,  some  one  is  beginning  to  squeal 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  89 

like  a  pig.  By  the  way,  can  it  be  me?  What! 
it  was  I  who  was  groaning!  Upon  my  word, 
It*s  a  little  too  strong,  that!  It  was  I  myself 
who  was  making  all  the  row,  and  I  did  not 
know  it.     It's  odd  to  hear  oneself  screaming. 

Ah!  now  it's  stopping,  their  beastly  motor. 

Look,  there's  the  sun !  What's  that  tree 
over  there?  I  know,  it's  a  Japanese  pine. 
Well,  you  see,  I'm  a  gardener,  old  chap. 
Oh,  oh,  oh!  My  back!  What  will  Felicie 
say  to  me? 

Look,  there's  Felicie  coming  down  to  the 
washing  trough.  She  pretends  not  to  see 
me.  ...  I  will  steal  behind  the  elder  hedge. 
Felicie!  Felicie!  I  have  a  piece  of  a  77 
in  my  kidneys.  I  like  her  best  in  her  blue 
bodice. 

What  are  you  putting  over  my  nose,  you 
people?  It  stinks  horribly.  I  am  choking,  I 
tell  you.  Felicie,  Felicie.  Put  on  your  blue 
bodice  with  the  white  spots,  my  little  Feli  .  .  . 
Oh,  but  .  .  .  oh,  but  .  .  .  ! 

Oh,  the  Whitsuntide  bells  already!  God — 
the  bells  already  .  .  ,  the  Whitsun  bells  .  .  . 
the  bells.  .  .  . 


90         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 


XXIV 

I  remember  him  very  well,  although  he 
was  not  long  with  us.  Indeed  I  think  that  I 
shall  never  forget  him,  and  yet  he  stayed  such 
a  short  time.  .  .  . 

When  he  arrived,  we  told  him  that  an 
operation  was  necessary,  and  he  made  a  move- 
ment with  his  head,  as  if  to  say  that  it  was 
our  business,  not  his. 

We  operated,  and  as  soon  as  he  recovered 
consciousness,  he  went  off  again  into  a  dream 
which  was  like  a  glorious  delirium,  silent  and 
haughty. 

His  breathing  was  so  impeded  by  blood 
that  it  sounded  like  groaning;  but  his  eyes 
were  full  of  a  strange  serenity.  That  look 
was  never  with  us. 

I  had  to  uncover  and  dress  his  wounds 
several  times;  and  those  wounds  must  have 
suffered.  But  to  the  last,  he  himself  seemed 
aloof  from  everything,  even  his  own  suffer- 
ings. 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  91 


XXV 

''Come  In  here.  You  can  see  him  once 
more.'* 

I  open  the  door,  and  push  the  big  fair  ar- 
tilleryman Into  the  room  where  his  brother 
has  just  died. 

I  turn  back  the  sheet  and  uncover  the  face 
of  the  corpse.     The  flesh  is  still  warm. 

The  big  fellow  looks  like  a  peasant.  He 
holds  his  helmet  In  both  hands,  and  stares  at 
his  brother's  face  with  eyes  full  of  horror  and 
amazement.  Then  suddenly,  he  begins  to  cry 
out: 

"Poor  Andre!      Poor  Andre!" 

This  cry  of  the  rough  man  is  unexpected, 
and  grandiose  as  the  voice  of  ancient  trage- 
dians chanting  the  threnody  of  a  hero. 

Then  he  drops  his  helmet,  throws  himself 
on  his  knees  beside  the  death-bed,  takes  the 
dead  face  between  his  hands  and  kisses  it 
gently  and  slowly  with  a  little  sound  of  the 
lips,  as  one  kisses  a  baby's  hand. 

I  take  him  by  the  arm  and  lead  him  away. 
His  sturdy  body  is  shaken  by  sobs  which  are 


92  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

like  the  neighing  of  a  horse;  he  is  blinded  by 
his  tears,  and  knocks  against  all  the  furni- 
ture. He  can  do  nothing  but  lament  in  a 
broken  voice : 

"Poor  Andre!     Poor  Andre!" 


XXVI 

La  Gloriette  is  amongst  the  pine-trees.  I 
lift  up  a  corner  of  the  canvas  and  he  is  there. 
In  spite  of  the  livid  patches  on  the  skin,  in 
spite  of  the  rigidity  of  the  features,  and  the 
absence  for  all  time  of  the  glance,  it  is  un- 
doubtedly the  familiar  face. 

What  a  long  time  he  suffered  to  win  the 
right  to  be  at  last  this  thing  which  suffers  no 
more! 

I  draw  back  the  winding-sheet.  The  body 
is  as  yet  but  little  touched  by  corruption. 
The  dressings  are  in  place,  as  before.  And 
as  before,  I  think,  as  I  draw  back  the  sheet,  of 
the  look  he  will  turn  on  me  at  the  moment  of 
suffering. 

But  there  is  no  longer  any  look,  no  longer 
any  suffering,  no  longer  even  any  movements. 
Only,  only  unimaginable  eternity. 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  9^ 

For  whom  is  the  damp  autumn  breeze  which 
flutters  the  canvas  hung  before  the  door? 
For  whom  the  billowy  mrrmur  of  the  pine- 
trees  and  the  rays  of  light  crossed  by  a  flight 
of  insects?  For  whom  this  growling  of  can- 
non mingling  now  with  the  landscape  like  one 
of  the  sounds  of  nature?  For  me  only,  for 
me,  alone  here  with  the  dead. 

The  corpse  is  still  so  near  to  the  living  man 
that  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind  that  I  am 
alone,  that  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind  to 
think  as  when  I  am  alone. 

For  indeed  we  spent  too  many  days  hoping 
together,  enduring  together,  and  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  say  so,  my  comrade,  suffering  to- 
gether. We  spent  too  many  days  wishing 
for  the  end  of  the  fever,  examining  the  wound, 
searching  after  the  deeply  rooted  cause  of  the 
disaster — both  tremulous,  you  from  the  effort 
to  bear  your  pain,  I  sometimes  from  having 
inflicted  it. 

We  spent  so  many  days,  do  you  remember, 
oh,  body  without  a  soul  ...  so  many  days 
fondly  expecting  the  medal  you  had  deserved. 
But  it  seems  that  one  must  have  given  an  eye 
or  a  limb  to  be  put  on  the  list,  and  you,  all  of 


94  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

a  sudden,  you  gave  your  life.  The  medal  had 
not  come,  for  it  does  not  travel  so  quickly  as 
death. 

So  many  days!  And  now  we  are  together 
again,  for  the  last  time. 

Well!  I  came  for  a  certain  purpose.  I 
came  to  learn  certain  things  at  last  that  your 
body  can  tell  me  now. 

I  open  the  case.  As  before,  I  cut  the 
dressings  with  the  shining  scissors.  And  I 
was  just  about  to  say  to  you,  as  before:  "If 
I  hurt  you,  call  out." 

XXVII 

At  the  edge  of  the  beetroot  field,  a  few 
paces  from  the  road,  in  the  white  sand  of 
Champagne,  there   is   a  burial-ground. 

Branches  of  young  beech  encircle  it,  mak- 
ing a  rusHc  barrier  that  shuts  out  nothing,  but 
allows  the  eyes  and  the  winds  to  wander  at 
will.  There  is  a  porch  like  those  of  Norman 
gardens.  Near  the  entrance  four  pine-trees 
were  planted,  and  these  have  died  standing 
at  their  posts,  like  soldiers. 

It  is  a  burial-ground  of  men. 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  MARTYRS  95 

In  the  villages,  round  the  churches,  or  on 
the  fair  hill-sides,  among  vines  and  flowers, 
there  are  ancient  graveyards  which  the  cen- 
turies filled  slowly,  and  where  woman  sleeps 
beside  man,  and  the  child  beside  the  grand- 
father. 

But  this  burial-ground  owes  nothing  to  old 
age  or  sickness.  It  Is  the  burial-ground  of 
young,  strong  men. 

We  may  read  their  names  on  the  hundreds 
of  little  crosses  which  repeat  daily  in  speech- 
less unison:  "There  must  be  something  more 
precious  than  life,  more  necessary  than  life 
.  .  .  since  we  are  here.'* 


THE  DEATH  OF  MERCIER 

MERCIER  is  dead,  and  I  saw  his  corpse 
weep.  ...  I  did  not  think  such  a 
thing  possible. 

The  orderly  had  just  washed  his  face  and 
combed  his  grey  hair. 

I  said:  "You  are  not  forty  yet,  my  poor 
Mercier,  and  your  hair  is  almost  white  al- 
ready." 

"It  is  because  my  life  has  been  a  very  hard 
one,  and  I  have  had  so  many  sorrows.  I 
have  worked  so  hard  ...  so  hard!  And  I 
have  had  so  little  luck." 

There  are  pitiful  little  wrinkles  all  over  his 
face;  a  thousand  disappointments  have  left 
indelible  traces  there.  And  yet  his  eyes  are 
always  smiling;  from  out  his  faded  features 
they  shine,  bright  with  an  artless  candour 
and  radiant  with  hope. 

"You  will  cure  me,  and  perhaps  I  shall  be 
luckier  in  the  future." 

I    say    "yes,"    and    I    think,    "Alas!     No, 


no. 


96 


THE  DEATH  OF  MERCIER  97 

But  suddenly  he  calls  me.  Great  dark  hol- 
lows appear  under  the  smiling  eyes.  A  livid 
sweat  bathes  his  forehead. 

"Come,  come!"  he  says.  "Something  ter- 
rible is  taking  hold  of  me.  Surely  I  am  go- 
ing to  die." 

We  busy  ourselves  with  the  poor  paralysed 
body.  The  face  alone  labours  to  translate  its 
sufferings.  The  hands  make  the  very  slight- 
est movement  on  the  sheet.  The  bullets  of 
the  machine-gun  have  cut  off  all  the  rest  from 
the  sources  of  life. 

We  do  what  we  can,  but  I  feel  his  heart 
beating  more  feebly;  his  lips  make  immense 
efforts  to  beg  for  one  drop,  one  drop  only 
from  the  vast  cup  of  air. 

Gradually  he  escapes  from  this  hell.  I  di- 
vine that  his  hand  makes  a  movement  as  if 
to  detain  mine. 

"Stay  by  me,"  he  says;  "I  am  afraid." 

I  stay  by  him.  The  sweat  no  longer  stands 
on  his  brow.  The  horrible  distress  passes 
off.  The  air  flows  again  into  the  miserable 
breast.  The  gentle  eyes  have  not  ceased  to 
smile. 

"You    will    save   me    after    all,"    he    says; 


98         THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

"I  have  had  too  miserable  a  life  to  die  yet. 
Monsieur." 

I  press  his  hand  to  give  him  confidence, 
and  I  feel  that  his  hard  hand  is  happy  in 
mine.  My  fingers  have  groped  in  his  flesh, 
his  blood  has  flowed  over  them,  and  this 
creates  strong  ties  between  two  men. 

Calm  seems  completely  restored.  I  talk  to 
him  of  his  beautiful  native  place.  He  was  a 
baker  in  a  village  of  Le  Cantal.  I  passed 
through  it  once  as  a  traveller  in  peace  time. 
We  recall  the  scent  of  the  juniper-bushes  on 
the  green  slopes  in  summer,  and  the  mineral 
fountains  with  wonderful  flavours  that  gush 
forth  among  the  mountains. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaims,  "I  shall  always  see 
you!" 

"You  will  see  me,  Mercier?" 

He  is  a  very  simple  fellow;  he  tries  to  ex- 
plain, and  merely  adds: 

"In  my  eyes.  ...  I  shall  always  see  you 
In  my  eyes." 

What  else  does  he  see?  What  other  thing 
is  suddenly  reflected  in  his  eyes? 

"I   think  .  .  .  oh,   it  is   beginning   again!" 

It   is   true;   the   spasm   is   beginning   again. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MERCIER  99 

It  Is  terrible.  In  spite  of  our  efforts,  It  over- 
comes the  victim,  and  this  time  we  are  help- 
less. 

*'I  feel  that  I  am  going  to  die,"  he  says. 

The  smiling  eyes  are  still  fixed  imploringly 
upon  me. 

''But  you  will  save  me,  you  will  save 
me!" 

Death  has  already  laid  a  disfiguring  hand 
on  Mercier. 

*'Stay  by  me." 

Yes,  I  will  stay  by  you,  and  hold  your  hand. 
Is  there  nothing  more  I  can  do  for  you? 

His  nostrils  quiver.  It  Is  hard  to  have 
been  wretched  for  forty  years,  and  to  have 
to  give  up  the  humble  hope  of  smelling  the 
pungent  scent  of  the  juniper-bushes  once 
more.  .  .  . 

His  lips  contract,  and  then  relax  gradually, 
so  sadly.  It  Is  hard  to  have  suffered  for  forty 
years,  and  to  be  unable  to  quench  one's  last 
thirst  with  the  wonderful  waters  of  our  moun- 
tain springs.  .  .  . 

Now  the  dark  sweat  gathers  again  on  the 
hollow  brow.  Oh,  it  Is  hard  to  die  after  forty 
years  of  toil,  without  ever  having  had  leisure 


100        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

to  wipe  the  sweat  from  a  brow  that  has  al- 
ways been  bent  over  one's  work. 

The  sacrifice  is  immense,  and  we  cannot 
choose  our  hour;  we  must  make  it  as  soon  as 
we  hear  the  voice  that  demands  it. 

The  man  must  lay  down  his  tools  and  say: 
"Here  I  am." 

Oh,  how  hard  it  is  to  leave  this  life  of  un- 
ceasing toil  and  sorrow! 

The  eyes  still  smile  feebly.  They  smile  to 
the  last  moment. 

He  speaks  no  more.  He  breathes  no  more. 
The  heart  throbs  wildly,  then  stops  dead  like 
a  foundered  horse. 

Mercier  is  dead.  The  pupils  of  his  eyes  are 
solemnly  distended  upon  a  glassy  abyss.  All 
is  over.     I  have  not  saved  him.   .   .   . 

Then  from  those  dead  eyes  great  tears  ooze 
slowly  and  flow  upon  his  cheeks.  I  see  his 
features  contract  as  if  to  weep  throughout 
eternity. 

I  keep  the  dead  hand  still  clasped  in  mine 
for  several  long  minutes. 


VERDUN 

February-April  191 6 

WE  were  going  northward  by  forced-, 
was^  like  a  mournful  garden  planted 
with  crosses.     We  were  no  longer  in  doubt  as 
to  our  appointed  destination;  every  day  since 

we    had    disembarked    at    B our    orders 

had  enjoined  us  to  hasten  our  advance  to 
the  fighting  units  of  the  Army  Corps.  This 
Army  Corps  was  contracting,  and  drawing  it- 
self together  hurriedly,  its  head  already  in  the 
thick  of  the  fray,  its  tail  still  winding  along 
the  roads,  across  the  battle-field  of  the  Marne. 
February  was  closing  in,  damp  and  icy,  with 
squalls  of  sleet,  under  a  sullen,  hideous  sky, 
lowering  furiously  down  to  the  level  of  the 
ground.  Everywhere  there  were  graves,  uni- 
formly decent,  or  rather  according  to  pattern, 
shov/ing  a  shield  of  tri-colour  or  black  and 
white,  and  figures.  Suddenly,  we  came  upon 
immense  flats,  whence  the  crosses  stretched 
out  their  arms  between  the  poplars  like  men 

lOI 


102        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

struggling  to  save  themselves  from  being  en- 
gulfed. Many  ancient  villages,  humble,  ir- 
remediable ruins.  And  yet  here  and  there, 
perched  upon  these,  frail  cabins  of  planks  and 
tiles,  sending  forth  thin  threads  of  smoke,  and 
emitting  a  timid  light,  in  an  attempt  to  be- 
gin life  again  as  before,  on  the  same  spot  as 
before.  Now  and  again  we  chanced  upon  a 
hamlet  which  the  hurricane  had  passed  by  al- 
most completely,  full  to  overflowing  with  the 
afflux  of  neighbouring  populations. 

Beyond  P ,  our  advance,  though  it  con- 
tinued to  be  rapid,  became  very  difficult,  ow- 
ing to  the  confluence  of  convoys  and  troops. 
The  main  roads,  reserved  for  the  military 
masses  which  were  under  the  necessity  of 
moving  rapidly,  arriving  early,  and  striking 
suddenly,  were  barred  to  us.  From  every 
point  of  the  horizon  disciplined  multitudes 
converged,  with  their  arsenal  of  formidable 
implements,  roUing  along  in  an  atmosphere 
of  benzine  and  hot  oil.  Through  this  ordered 
mass,  our  convoys  threaded  their  way  tena- 
ciously and  advanced.  We  could  see  on  the 
hill  sides,  crawling  like  a  clan  of  migrating 
ants,  stretcher-bearers  and  their  dogs  drawing 


VERDUN  103 

handcarts  for  the  wounded,  then  the  columns 
of  orderhes,  muddy  and  exhausted,  then  the 
ambulances,  which  every  week  of  war  loads  a 
little  more  heavily,  dragged  along  by  horses 
in  a  steam  of  sweat. 

From  time  to  time,  the  whole  train  halted 
at  some  cross-road,  and  the  ambulances  al- 
lowed more  urgent  things  to  pass  in  front  of 
them — things  designed  to  kill,  sturdy  grey 
mortars  borne  along  post  haste  In  a  metallic 
rumble. 

A  halt,  a  draught  of  wine  mingled  with  rain, 
a  few  minutes  to  choke  over  a  mouthful  of 
stale  bread,  and  we  were  off  again,  longing 
for  the  next  halt,  for  a  dry  shelter,  for  an 
hour  of  real  sleep. 

Soon  after  leaving  C we  began  to  meet 

fugitives.  This  complicated  matters  very 
much,  and  the  spectacle  began  to  show  an 
odious  likeness  to  the  scenes  of  the  beginning 
of  the  war,  the  scenes  of  the  great  retreat. 

Keeping  along  the  roadsides,  the  by-roads, 
the  field-paths,  they  were  fleeing  from  the 
Verdun  district,  whence  they  had  been  evacu- 
ated by  order.  They  were  urging  on  miser- 
able   old    horses,    drawing    frail    carts,    their 


104        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

wheels  sunk  in  the  ruts  up  to  the  nave,  loaded 
with  mattresses  and  eiderdowns,  with  appli- 
ances for  eating  and  sleeping,  and  sometimes 
too,  with  cages  In  which  birds  were  twitter- 
ing. On  they  went,  from  village  to  village, 
seeking  an  undlscoverable  lodging,  but  not 
complaining,  saying  merely: 

"You    are    going    to    Verdun?     We    have 

just   come   from   X .     We   were    ordered 

to  leave.  It  is  very  difficult  to  find  a  place  to 
settle  down  in." 

Women  passed.  Two  of  them  were  drag- 
ging a  little  baby-carriage  in  which  an  infant 
lay  asleep.  One  of  them  was  quite  young,  the 
other  old.  They  held  up  their  skirts  out  of  the 
mud.  They  were  wearing  little  town  shoes, 
and  every  minute  they  sank  into  the  slime  like 
ourselves,  sometimes  above  their  ankles. 

All  day  long  we  encountered  similar  pro- 
cessions. I  do  not  remember  seeing  one  of 
these  women  weep;  but  they  seemed  terri- 
fied, and  mortally  tired. 

Meanwhile,  the  sound  of  the  guns  became 
fuller  and  more  regular.  All  the  roads  we 
caught  sight  of  In  the  country  seemed  to  be 
bearing  their  load  of  men  and  of  machines. 


VERDUN  105 

Here  and  there  a  horse  which  had  succumbed 
at  Its  task  lay  rotting  at  the  foot  of  a  hillock.- 
A  subdued  roar  rose  to  the  ear,  made  up  of 
trampling  hoofs,  of  grinding  wheels,  of  the 
buzz  of  motors,  and  of  a  multitude  talking 
and  eating  on  the  march. 

Suddenly  we  debouched  at  the  edge  of  a 
wood  upon  a  height  whence  we  could  see  the 
whole  battle-field.  It  was  a  vast  expanse  of 
plains  and  slopes,  studded  with  the  grey  woods 
of  winter.  Long  trails  of  smoke  from  burning 
buildings  settled  upon  the  landscape.  And 
other  trails,  minute  and  multi-coloured,  rose 
from  the  ground  wherever  projectiles  were 
raining.  Nothing  more:  wisps  of  smoke, 
brief  flashes  visible  even  In  broad  daylight, 
and  a  string  of  captive  balloons,  motionless 
and  observant  witnesses  of  all. 

But  we  were  already  descending  the  Incline 
and  the  various  planes  of  the  landscape  melted 
one  after  the  other.  As  we  were  passing  over 
a  bridge,  I  saw  In  a  group  of  soldiers  a  friend 
I  had  not  met  since  the  beginning  of  the  war. 
We  could  not  stop,  so  he  walked  along  with 
me  for  a  while,  and  we  spent  these  few  minutes 
recalling  the  things  of  the  past.     Then  as  he 


106        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

left  me  we  embraced,  though  we  had  never 
done  so  In  times  of  peace. 

Night  was  falling.  Knowing  that  we  were 
now  at  our  last  long  lap,  we  encouraged  the 

worn-out  men.     At  R I  lost  touch  with 

my  formation.  I  halted  on  the  roadside,  call- 
ing aloud  Into  the  darkness.  An  artillery 
train  passed,  covering  me  with  mud  to  my 
eyes.  Finally,  I  picked  up  my  friends,  and 
we  marched  on  through  villages  Illumined  by 
the  camp  fires  which  were  flickering  under  a 
driving  rain,  through  a  murky  country  which 
the  flash  of  cannon  suddenly  showed  to  be 
covered  with  a  multitude  of  men,  of  horses, 
and  of  martial  objects. 

It  was  February  27.  Between  ten  and 
eleven  at  night  we  arrived  at  a  hospital  in- 
stalled in  some  wooden  sheds,  and  feverishly 

busy.     We  were  at  B ,  a  miserable  village 

on  which  next  day  the  Germans  launched  some 
thirty  monster-shells,  yet  failed  to  kill  so  much 
as  a  mouse. 

The  night  was  spent  on  straw,  to  the  sten- 
torian snores  of  fifty  men  overcome  by  fatigue. 
Then  reveille,  and  again,  liquid  mud  over  the 
ankles.     As  the  main  road  was  forbidden  to 


VERDUN  107 

our  ambulances  there  was  an  excited  discus- 
sion as  a  result  of  which  we  separated:  the 
vehicles  to  go  In  search  of  a  by-way,  and  we, 
the  pedestrians,  to  skirt  the  roads  on  which 
long  lines  of  motor-lorries,  coming  and  going, 
passed  each  other  In  haste  like  the  carriages  of 
an  Immense  train. 

We   had  known   since  midnight   where   we 
were  to  take  up  our  quarters;  the  suburb  of 

G was  only  an  hour's  march  further  on. 

In  the  fields,  right  and  left,  were  bivouacs  of 
colonial  troops  with  muddy  helmets;  they 
had  come  back  from  the  firing  line,  and  seemed 
strangely  quiet.  In  front  of  us  lay  the  town, 
half  hidden,  full  of  crackling  sounds  and 
echoes.  Beyond,  the  hills  of  the  Meuse,  on 
which  we  could  distinguish  the  houses  of  the 
villages,  and  the  continuous  rain  of  machine- 
gun  bullets.  We  skirted  a  meadow  strewn 
with  forsaken  furniture,  beds,  chests,  a  whole 
fortune  which  looked  like  the  litter  of  a  hos- 
pital. At  last  we  arrived  at  the  first  houses, 
and  we  were  shown  the  place  where  we  were 

expected. 

♦  *  * 

There  were  two  brick  buildings  of  several 


s 


108        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

storeys,  connected  by  a  glazed  corridor;  the 
rest  of  the  enclosure  was  occupied  by  wooden 
sheds.  Behind  lay  orchards  and  gardens,  the 
first  houses  of  the  suburb.  In  front,  the  wall 
of  a  park,  a  meadow,  a  railway  track,  and  La 
Route,  the  wonderful  and  terrible  road  that 
enters  the  town  at  this  very  point. 

Groups  of  lightly  wounded  men  were  hob- 
bling towards  the  hospital;  the  incessant  rush 
of  motors  kept  up  the  feverish  circulation  of 
a  demolished  ant-hill. 

As  we  approached  the  buildings,  a  doctor 
came  out  to  meet  us. 

"Come,  come.  There's  work  enough  for  a 
month." 

It  was  true.  The  effluvium  and  the  moans 
of  several  hundreds  of  wounded  men  greeted 

us.     Ambulance  No ,  which  we  had  come 

to  relieve,  had  been  hard  at  it  since  the  night 
before,  without  having  made  much  visible 
progress.  Doctors  and  orderlies,  their  faces 
haggard  from  a  night  of  frantic  toil,  came 
and  went,  choosing  among  the  heaps  of 
wounded,  and  tended  two  while  twenty  more 
poured  in. 

While  waiting  for   our  material,   we   went 


VERDUN  109 

over  the  buildings.  But  a  few  days  before, 
contagious  diseases  had  been  treated  here.  A 
hasty  disinfection  had  left  the  wards  reeking 
with  formaline  which  rasped  the  throat  with- 
out disguising  the  sickly  stench  of  the  crowded 
sufferers.  They  were  huddled  round  the 
stoves  in  the  rooms,  lying  upon  the  beds  of 
the  dormitories,  or  crouching  on  the  flags  of 
the  passages. 

In  each  ward  of  the  lower  storey  there 
were  thirty  or  forty  men  of  every  branch  of 
the  service,  moaning  and  going  out  from  time 
to  time  to  crawl  to  the  latrines,  or,  mug  in 
hand,  to  fetch  something  to  drink. 

As  we  explored  further,  the  scene  became 
more  terrible;  in  the  back  rooms  and  in  the 
upper  building  a  number  of  severely  wounded 
men  had  been  placed,  who  began  to  howl  as 
soon  as  we  entered.  Many  of  them  had  been 
there  for  several  days.  The  brutahty  of  cir- 
cumstances, the  relief  of  units,  the  enormous 
sum  of  work,  all  combined  to  create  one  of 
those  situations  which  dislocate  and  over- 
whelm the  most  willing  service. 

We  opened  a  door,  and  the  men  who  were 
lying  within  began  to  scream  at  the  top  of  their 


no        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

voices.  Some,  lying  on  their  stretchers  on 
the  floor,  seized  us  by  the  legs  as  we  passed, 
imploring  us  to  attend  to  them.  A  few  be- 
wildered orderlies  hurried  hither  and  thither, 
powerless  to  meet  the  needs  of  this  mass  of 
suffering.  Every  moment  I  felt  my  coat 
seized,  and  heard  a  voice  saying: 

*'I  have  been  here  four  days.  Dress  my 
wounds,  for  God's  sake." 

And  when  I  answered  that  I  would  come 
^back  again  Immediately,  the  poor  fellow  be- 
jan  to  cry. 

"They  all  say  they  will  come  back,  but 
hhty  never  do." 

Occasionally  a  man  in  delirium  talked  to  us 
incoherently  as  we  moved  along.  Sometimes 
we  went  round  a  quiet  bed  to  see  the  face  of 
the  sufferer,  and  found  only  a  corpse. 

Each  ward  we  inspected  revealed  the  same 
distress,  exhaled  the  same  odour  of  antisep- 
tics and  excrements,  for  the  orderlies  could 
not  always  get  to  the  patient  In  time,  and 
many  of  the  men  relieved  themselves  appar- 
ently unconcerned. 

I  remember  a  little  deserted  room  in  dis- 
order, on  the  table  a  bowl  of  coffee  with  bread 


VERDUN  111 

floating  in  it;  a  woman's  slippers  on  the  floor, 
and  in  a  corner,  toilet  articles  and  some 
strands  of  fair  hair.  ...  I  remember  a  cor- 
ner where  a  wounded  man  suffering  from  men- 
ingitis, called  out  unceasingly:  27,  28, 
29  .  .  .  27,  28,  29  ...  a  prey  to  a  strange 
obsession  of  numbers.  I  see  a  kitchen  where 
a  soldier  was  plucking  a  white  fowl  ...  I 
see  an  Algerian  non-commissioned  officer  pac- 
ing the  corridor.  .  .  . 

Towards  noon,  the  head  doctor  arrived 
followed  by  my  comrades,  and  our  vehicles. 
With  him  I  made  the  round  of  the  buildings 
again  while  they  were  unpacking  our  stores. 
I  had  got  hold  of  a  syringe,  while  waiting 
for  a  knife,  and  I  set  to  work  distributing 
morphia.  The  task  before  us  seemed  im- 
mense, and  every  minute  it  increased.  We 
began  to  divide  it  hastily,  to  assign  to  each 
his  part.  The  cries  of  the  sufferers  muffled 
the  sound  of  a  formidable  cannonade.  An 
assistant  at  my  side,  whom  I  knew  to  be  en- 
ergetic and  resolute,  muttered  between  his 
teeth:  **No!  no!  Anything  rather  than 
war!'^ 


112        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

But  we  had  first  to  introduce  some  order 
into  our  Inferno. 

^  ^  4: 

In  a  few  hours  this  order  appeared  and 
reigned.  We  were  exhausted  by  days  of 
marching  and  nights  of  broken  sleep,  but  men 
put  off  their  packs  and  set  to  work  with  a 
silent  courage  that  seemed  to  exalt  even  the 
least  generous  natures.  Our  first  spell  lasted 
for  thirty-six  hours,  during  which  each  one 
gave  to  the  full  measure  of  his  powers,  with- 
out a  thought  of  self. 

Four  operation-wards  had  been  arranged. 
The  wounded  were  brought  in  unceasingly, 
and  a  grave  and  prudent  mind  pronounced 
upon  the  state  of  each,  upon  his  fate,  his  fu- 
ture. .  .  .  Confronted  by  the  overwhelming 
flood  of  work  to  be  done,  the  surgeon,  before 
seizing  the  knife,  had  to  meditate  deeply,  and 
make  a  decision  as  to  the  sacrifice  which 
would  ensure  life,  or  give  some  hope  of  life. 
In  a  moment  of  effective  thought,  he  had  to 
perceive  and  weigh  a  man's  whole  existence, 
then  act,  with  method  and  audacity. 

As  soon  as  one  wounded  man  left  the  ward, 
another  was  brought   in;   while   the   prepara- 


VERDUN  113 

tions  for  the  operation  were  being  made,  we 
went  to  choose  among  and  classify  the  pa- 
tients beforehand,  for  many  needed  nothing 
more;  they  had  passed  beyond  human  aid, 
and  awaited,  numb  and  unconscious,  the 
crowning  mercy  of  death. 

The  word  "untransportable"  once  pro- 
nounced, directed  all  our  work.  The  wounded 
capable  of  waiting  a  few  hours  longer  for 
attention,  and  of  going  elsewhere  for  it  were 
removed.  But  when  the  buzz  of  the  motors 
was  heard,  every  one  wanted  to  go,  and  men 
begging  to  be  taken  away  entered  upon  their 
death  agony  as  they  assured  us  they  felt  quite 
strong  enough  to  travel.  .   .  . 

Some  told  us  their  histories;  the  majority 
were  silent.  They  wanted  to  go  elsewhere 
.  .  .  and  above  all,  to  sleep,  to  drink.  Nat- 
ural wants  dominated,  and  made  them  forget 
the  anguish  of  their  wounds.  ... 

I  remember  one  poor  fellow  who  was  asked 
If  he  wanted  anything.  .  .  .  He  had  a  terrible 
wound  In  the  chest,  and  was  waiting  to  be 
examined.  He  replied  timidly  that  he  wanted 
the  urinal,  and  when  the  orderly  hurried  to 
him  bringing  It,  he  was  dead. 


114        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

The  pressure  of  urgent  duty  had  made  us 
quite  unmindful  of  the  battle  close  by,  and  of 
the  deafening  cannonade.  However,  towards 
evening,  the  buildings  trembled  under  the 
fury  of  the  detonations.  A  little  armoured 
train  had  taken  up  its  position  near  us.  The 
muzzle  of  a  naval  gun  protruded  from  it, 
and  from  moment  to  moment  thrust  out  a 
broad  tongue  of  flame  with  a  catastrophic 
roar. 

The  work  was  accelerated  at  the  very  height 
of  the  uproar.  Rivers  of  water  had  run  along 
the  corridors,  washing  down  the  mud,  the 
blood  and  the  refuse  of  the  operation-wards. 
The  men  who  had  been  operated  on  were 
carried  to  beds  on  which  clean  sheets  had  been 
spread.  The  open  windows  let  in  the  pure, 
keen  air,  and  night  fell  on  the  hillsides  of  the 
Meuse,  where  the  tumult  raged  and  lightnings 
flashed. 

Sometimes  a  wounded  man  brought  us  the 
latest  news  of  the  battle.  Between  his  groans, 
he  described  the  incredible  bombardment,  the 
obstinate  resistance,  the  counter-attacks  at  the 
height  of  the  hurly-burly. 

All  these   simple   fellows  ended  their  story 


VERDUN  115 

with  the  same  words,  surprising  words  at  such 
a  moment  of  suffering: 

"They  can't  get  through  now.   .  .  . 

Then  they  began  to  moan  again. 

During  the  terrible  weeks  of  the  battle,  it 
was  from  the  lips  of  these  tortured  men  that 
we  heard  the  most  amazing  words  of  hope  and 
confidence,  uttered  between  two  cries  of  an- 
guish. 

The  first  night  passed  under  this  stress  and 
pressure.  The  morning  found  us  face  to  face 
with  labours  still  vast,  but  classified,  divided, 
and  half  determined. 

A  superior  ofEcer  came  to  visit  us.  He 
seemed  anxious. 

"They  have  spotted  you,"  he  said.  'T 
hope  you  mayn't  have  to  work  upon  each 
other.     You  will   certainly  be   bombarded   at 


noon." 


We  had  forgotten  this  prophecy  by  the  time 
it  was  fulfilled. 

About  noon,  the  air  was  rent  by  a  screech- 
ing whistle,  and  some  dozen  shells  fell  within 
the  hospital  enclosure,  piercing  one  of  the 
buildings,  but  sparing  the  men.  This  was  the 
beginning  of  an  irregular  but  almost  continu- 


116        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

ous  bombardment,  which  was  not  specially  di- 
rected against  us,  no  doubt,  but  which  threat- 
ened us  incessantly. 

No  cellars.  Nothing  but  thin  walls.  The 
work  went  on. 

On  the  third  day  a  lull  enabled  us  to  com- 
plete our  organisation.  The  enemy  was  bom- 
barding the  town  and  the  lines  persistently. 
Our  artillery  replied,  shell  for  shell,  in  furious 
salvos;  a  sort  of  thunderous  wall  rose  around 
us  w^hich  seemed  to  us  like  a  rampart.  .  .  . 
The  afflux  of  wounded  had  diminished.  We 
had  just  received  men  who  had  been  fighting 
in  the  open  country,  as  in  the  first  days  of  the 
war,  but  under  a  hail  of  projectiles  hitherto 
reserved  for  the  destruction  of  fortresses. 
Our  comrade  D arrived  from  the  battle- 
field on  foot,  livid,  supporting  his  shattered 
elbow.  He  stammered  out  a  tragic  story:  his 
regiment  had  held  its  ground  under  a  surging 
tide  of  fire;  thousands  of  huge  shells  had 
fallen  in  a  narrow  ravine,  and  he  had  seen 
limbs  hanging  in  the  thicket,  a  savage  dis- 
persal of  human  bodies.  The  men  had  held 
their  ground,   and  then  had  fought.  .  .  . 

A    quarter    of    an    hour    after    his    arrival 


VERDUN  117 

D ,  refreshed  and  strengthened,  was  con- 
templating the  big  wound  in  his  arm  on  the 
operating  table,  and  talking  calmly  of  his 
ruined  future.  .  .  . 

Towards  the  evening  of  this  day,  we  were 
able  to  go  out  of  the  building,  and  breathe  the 
unpolluted  air  for  a  few  minutes. 

The  noise  reigned  supreme,  as  silence  reigns 
elsewhere.  We  were  impregnated,  almost  in- 
toxicated with  it.  .  .  . 

A  dozen  of  those  captlv^e  balloons  which 
the  soldiers  call  '^sausages"  formed  an  aerial 
semi-circle  and  kept  watch. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hills  the  German 
balloons  also  watched  in  the  purple  mist  to 
the  East. 

Night  came,  and  the  balloons  remained 
faithfully  at  their  posts.  We  were  in  the 
centre  of  a  circus  of  fire,  woven  by  all  the 
lightnings  of  the  cannonade.  To  the  south- 
west, however,  a  black  breach  opened,  and 
one  divined  a  free  passage  there  towards  the 
interior  of  the  country  and  towards  silence. 
A  few  hundred  feet  from  us,  a  cross-road 
continually  shelled  by  the  enemy  echoed  to 
the  shock  of  projectiles  battering  the  ground 


118        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

like  hammers  on  an  anvil.  We  often  found  at 
our  feet  fragments  of  steel  still  hot,  which  in 
the  gloom  seemed  slightly  phosphorescent. 


From  this  day  forth,  a  skilful  combination 
of  our  hours  and  our  means  enabled  us  to  take 
short  spells  of  rest  in  turn.  However,  for  a 
hundred  reasons  sleep  was  impossible  to  me, 
and  for  several  weeks  I  forgot  what  it  was  to 
slumber. 

I  used  to  retire,  then,  from  time  to  time  to 

the  room  set  apart  for  my  friend  V and 

myself,  and  lie  down  on  a  bed,  overcome  by  a 
fatigue  that  verged  on  stupefaction;  but  the 
perpetual  clatter  of  sabots  and  shoes  in  the 
passage  kept  the  mind  alert  and  the  eyes  open. 
The  chorus  of  the  wounded  rose  in  gusts; 
there  were  always  in  the  adjoining  wards 
some  dozen  men  wounded  in  the  head,  and 
suffering  from  meningitis,  which  provoked  a 
kind  of  monotonous  howling;  there  were  men 
wounded  in  the  abdomen,  and  crying  out 
for  the  drink  that  was  denied  them;  there 
were  the  men  wounded  in  the  chest,  and  racked 
by  a  low  cough  choked  with  blood  .  .  .  and 


VERDUN  119 

all  the  rest  who  lay  moaning,  hoping  for  an 
impossible  repose.  .  .  . 

Then  I  would  get  up  and  go  back  to  work, 
haunted  by  the  terrible  fear  that  excess  of 
fatigue  might  have  made  my  eye  less  keen, 
my  hand  less  steady  than  imperious  duty  re- 
quired. 

At  night  more  especially,  the  bombardment 
was  renewed,  In  hurricane  gusts. 

The  air,  rent  by  projectiles,  mewed  like  a 
furious  cat;  the  detonations  came  closer, 
then  retired  methodically,  like  the  footsteps 
of  a  giant  on  guard  around  us,  above  us,  upon 
us. 

Every  morning  the  orderlies  took  advantage 
of  a  moment  of  respite  to  run  and  inspect  the 
new  craters,  and  unearth  the  fuses  of  shells. 
...  I  thought  of  the  delightful  phrase  of  as- 
sistant-surgeon M whom  we  had  at- 
tended for  a  wound  on  the  head,  and  who 
said  to  me  as  I  was  taking  him  back  to  bed, 
and  we  heard  the  explosions  close  by: 

*'0h,  the  marmites  (big  shells)  always  fall 
short  of  one." 

But  to  a  great  many  of  the  wounded,  the 
perpetual  uproar  was  intolerable.     They  im- 


120        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

plored  us  with  tears  to  send  them  somewhere 
else;  those  we  kept  were,  as  a  fact,  unable  to 
bear  removal;  we  had  to  soothe  them  and 
keep  them,  in  spite  of  everything.  Some, 
overcome  by  fatigue,  slept  all  day;  others 
showed  extraordinary  indifference,  perhaps 
due  to  a  touch  of  delirium,  like  the  man  with 
a  wound  in  the  abdomen  which  I  was  dress- 
ing one  morning,  and  who  when  he  saw  me 
turn  my  head  at  the  sound  of  an  explosion 
which  ploughed  up  a  neighbouring  field,  as- 
sured me  quietly  that  "those  things  weren't 
dangerous." 

One  night  a  policeman  ran  in  with  his  face 
covered  with  blood. 

He  was  waving  a  lantern  which  he  used  to 
regulate  the  wheeled  traffic,  and  he  main- 
tained that  the  enemy  had  spotted  his  lamp 
and  had  peppered  him  with  bullets.  As  a 
fact,  he  had  only  some  slight  scratches.  He 
went  off,  washed  and  bandaged,  but  only  to 
come  back  to  us  the  next  day  dead.  A  large 
fragment  of  iron  had  penetrated  his 
eye. 

There    was    an    entrance    ward,    where    we  ^| 
sorted  the  cases.    Ten  times  a  day  we  thought  *^j 


VERDUN  121 

we  had  emptied  this  reservoir  of  misery;  but 
we  always  found  it  full  again,  paved  with 
muddy  stretchers  on  which  men  lay,  panting 
and  waiting. 

Opposite  to  this  ante-room  was  a  clearing 
ward;  it  seemed  less  dismal  than  the  other, 
though  it  was  just  as  bare,  and  not  any 
lighter;  but  the  wounded  there  were  clean; 
they  had  been  operated  on,  they  wore  white 
bandages,  they  had  been  comforted  with  hot 
drinks  and  with  all  sorts  of  hopes,  for  they 
had  already  escaped  the  first  summons  of 
Death. 

Between  these  two  rooms,  a  clerk  lived 
in  the  draught,  the  victim  of  an  accumula- 
tion of  indispensable  and  stupefying  docu- 
ments. 

In  the  beginning,  the  same  man  sat  for 
three  days  and  three  nights  chained  to  this 
ungrateful  task  until  at  last  we  saw  him,  his 
face  convulsed,  almost  mad  after  unremit- 
tingly labelling  all  this  suffering  with  names 
and  figures. 


The  first  days  of  March  were  chilly,  with 


122        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

alternations  of  snow  and  sunshine.  When  the 
air  was  pure,  we  heard  It  vibrate  with  the  life 
of  aeroplanes  and  echo  to  their  contests.  The 
dry  throb  of  machine-guns,  the  Incessant 
scream  of  shrapnel  formed  a  kind  of  crack- 
ling dome  over  our  heads.  The  German 
aeroplanes  overwhelmed  the  environs  with 
bombs  which  gave  a  prolonged  whistle  before 
tearing  up  the  soil  or  gutting  a  house.  One 
fell  a  few  paces  from  the  ward  where  I  was 
operating  on  a  man  who  had  been  wounded 
In  the  head.  I  remember  the  brief  glance  I 
cast  outwards  and  the  screams  and  head- 
long flight  of  the  men  standing  under  the 
windows. 

One  morning  I  saw  an  airship  which  was 
cruising  over  the  hills  of  the  Meuse  suddenly 
begin  to  trail  after  it,  comet-wise,  a  thick 
tail  of  black  smoke,  and  then  rush  to  the 
earth,  irradiated  by  a  burst  of  flame,  bril- 
liant even  In  the  daylight.  And  I  thought 
of  the  two  men  who  were  experiencing  this 
fall. 

The  military  situation  Improved  daily,  but 
the  battle  was  no  less  strenuous.  The  guns 
used  by  the  enemy  for  the  destruction  of  men 


VERDUN  123 

produced  horrible  wounds,  certainly  more 
severe  on  the  whole  than  those  we  had  tended 
during  the  first  twenty  months  of  a  war  that 
has  been  pitiless  from  its  Inception.  All  doc- 
tors must  have  noted  the  hideous  success 
achieved  In  a  very  short  time,  in  perfecting 
means  of  laceration.  And  we  marvelled  bit- 
terly that  man  could  adventure  his  frail  or- 
ganism through  the  deflagrations  of  a  chem- 
istry hardly  disciplined  as  yet,  which  attains 
and  surpasses  the  brutality  of  the  blind 
forces  of  Nature.  We  marvelled  more  es- 
pecially that  flesh  so  delicate,  the  product  and 
the  producer  of  harmony,  could  endure  such 
shocks  and  such  dilapidations  without  instant 
disintegration. 

Many  men  came  to  us  with  one  or  several 
limbs  torn  off  completely,  yet  they  came  still 
living.  .  .  .  Some  had  thirty  or  forty  wounds, 
and  even  more.  We  examined  each  body 
systematically,  passing  from  one  sad  discovery 
to  another.  They  reminded  us  of  those 
derelict  vessels  which  let  In  the  water  every- 
where. And  just  because  these  wrecks 
seemed  Irredeemably  condemned  to  disaster, 
we   clung  to   them   In   the   obstinate   hope    of 


124        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

bringing  them  Into  port  and  perhaps  floating 
them  again. 

When  the  pressure  was  greatest,  it  was  im- 
possible to  undress  the  men  and  get  them 
washed  properly  before  bringing  them  into 
the  operating-ward.  The  problem  was  in 
these  cases  to  isolate  the  work  of  the  knife  as 
far  as  possible  from  the  surrounding  mud, 
dirt  and  vermin:  I  have  seen  soldiers  so  cov- 
ered with  lice  that  the  different  parts  of  the 
dressings  were  invaded  by  them,  and  even  the 
wounds.  The  poor  creatures  apologised,  as  if 
they  were  in  some  way  to  blame.  .  .  . 

At  such  moments  patierits  succeeded  each 
other  so  rapidly  that  we  knew  nothing  of 
them  beyond  their  wounds:  the  man  was  car- 
ried away,  still  plunged  in  sleep;  we  had  made 
all  the  necessary  decisions  for  him  without 
having  heard  his  voice  or  considered  his 
face. 

We  avoided  overcrowding  by  at  once  evac- 
uating all  those  on  whom  we  had  operated 
as  soon  as  they  were  no  longer  in  danger  of 
complications.  We  loaded  them  up  on  the 
ambulances  which  followed  one  upon  the 
other  before  the  door.     Some  of  the  patients 


VERDUN  125 

came  back  a  few  minutes  later,  riddled  with 
fragments  of  shell;  the  driver  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  dodging  the  shells,  and  he  was  often 
wounded  himself.  In  like  manner  the 
stretcher-bearers  as  they  passed  along  the 
road  were  often  hit  themselves,  and  were 
brought  in  on  their  own  hand-carts. 

One  evening  there  was  a  "gas  warning." 
Some  ^sts  of  wind  arrived,  bearing  along  an 
acrid  odour.  All  the  wounded  were  given 
masks  and  spectacles  as  a  precaution.  We 
hung  them  even  on  the  heads  of  the  beds 
where  dying  men  lay  .  .  .  and  then  we 
waited.  Happily,  the  wave  spent  Itself  before 
it  reached  us. 

A  wounded  man  was  brought  in  that  eve- 
ning with  several  injuries  caused  by  a  gas- 
shell.  His  eyes  had  quite  disappeared  under 
his  swollen  lids.  His  clothlns:  was  so  im- 
pregnated  with  the  poison  that  we  all  began 
to  cough  and  weep,  and  a  penetrating  odour 
of  garlic  and  citric  acid  hung  about  the  ward 
for  some  time. 

Many  things  we  had  perforce  to  leave  to 
chance,  and  I  thought,  during  this  alarm,  of 
men    just    operated    on,    and   plunged    In   the 


126       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Stupor  of  the  chloroform,  whom  we  should 
have  to  allow  to  wake,  and  then  mask  them 
immediately,  or  .  .  . 


Ah,  well!  ...  In  the  midst  of  all  this  un- 
imaginable tragedy,  laughter  was  not  quite 
quenched.  This  phenomenon  is  perhaps  one 
of  the  characteristics,  one  of  the  greatnesses 
of  our  race — and  in  a  more  general  way,  no 
doubt,  it  is  an  imperative  need  of  humanity 
at  large. 

Certain  of  the  wounded  took  a  pride  in 
cracking  jokes,  and  they  did  so  in  words  to 
which  circumstances  lent  a  poignant  pictur- 
esqueness.  These  jests  drew  a  laugh  from  us 
which  was  often  closely  akin  to  tears. 

One  morning,  in  the  sorting  room,  I  noticed 
a  big,  curly-haired  fellow  who  had  lost  a  foot, 
and  had  all  sorts  of  wounds  and  fractures  in 
both  legs.  All  these  had  been  hastily  bound 
up,  clothing  and  all.  In  the  hollow  of  the 
stretcher,  which  was  stiff  with  blood.  When 
I  called  the  stretcher-bearers  and  contemplated 
this  picture,  the  big  man  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow  and  said: 


VERDUN  127 

"Please  give  me  a  cigarette." 

Then  he  began  to  smoke,  smiling  cheer- 
fully and  telling  absurd  stories.  We  took  off 
one  of  his  legs  up  to  the  thigh,  and  as  soon 
as  he  recovered  consciousness,  he  asked  for 
another  cigarette,  and  set  all  the  orderlies 
laughing. 

When,  on  leaving  him,  I  asked  this  extraor- 
dinary man  what  his  calling  was,  he  replied 
modestly: 

"I  am  one  of  the  employees  of  the  Vichy 
Company." 

The  orderlies  in  particular,  nearly  all  sim- 
ple folks,  had  a  desire  to  laugh,  even  when 
they  were  worn  out  with  fatigue,  which  made 
a  pretext  of  the  slightest  thing,  and  notably 
of  danger.  One  of  them,  called  Tallleur,  a 
buffoon  with  the  airs  of  an  executioner's  as- 
sistant, would  call  out  at  the  first  explosions 
of  a  hurricane  of  shells: 

"Number  your  arms  and  legs!  Look  out 
for  your  nuts !  The  winkles  are  tumbling 
about!" 

All  my  little  band  would  begin  to  laugh. 
And  I  had  not  the  heart  to  check  them,  for 
their  faces  were  drawn  with  fatigue,  and  this 


128        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

moment  of  doleful  merriment  at  least  pre- 
vented them  from  falling  asleep  as  they 
stood. 

When  the  explosions  came  very  close,  this 
same  Tallleur  could  not  help  exclaim- 
ing: 

"I  am  not  going  to  be  killed  by  a  brick  1  I 
am  going  outside." 

I  would  look  at  him  with  a  smile,  and  he 
would  repeat:  "As  for  me,  I'm  off,"  care- 
fully rolling  a  bandage  the  while,  which  he  did 
with  great  dexterity. 

His  mixture  of  terror  and  swagger  was  a 
perpetual  entertainment  to  us.  One  night,  a 
hand-grenade  fell  out  of  the  pocket  of  one  of 
the  wounded.  In  defiance  of  orders,  Tallleur, 
who  knew  nothing  at  all  about  the  handling 
of  such  things,  turned  It  over  and  examined 
it  for  some  time,  with  comic  curiosity  and  dis- 
trust. 

One  day  a  pig  intended  for  our  consump- 
tion was  killed  in  the  pig-sty  by  fragments 
of  shell.  We  ate  it,  and  the  finding  by  one 
of  the  orderlies  of  some  bits  of  metal  In  his 
portion  of  meat  gave  occasion  for  a  great 
many  jests. 


VERDUN  129 

For  a  fortnight  we  were  unable  to  go  be- 
yond the  hospital  enclosure.  Our  longest  ex- 
pedition was  to  the  piece  of  waste  ground 
which  had  been  allotted  to  us  for  a  burial 
ground,  a  domain  the  shells  were  always 
threatening  to  plough  up.  This  graveyard  in- 
creased considerably.  As  it  takes  a  man  eight 
hours  to  dig  a  grave  for  his  brother  man,  one 
had  to  set  a  numerous  gang  to  work  all  day, 
to  ensure  a  place  for  each  corpse. 

Sometimes  we  went  into  the  wooden  shed 
which  served  as  our  mortuary.  Pere  Duval, 
the  oldest  of  our  orderlies,  sewed  there  all 
day,  making  shrouds  of  coarse  linen  for  *'his 
dead." 

They  were  laid  in  the  earth  carefully,  side 
by  side,  their  feet  together,  their  hands 
crossed  on  their  breasts,  when  indeed  they 
still  possessed  hands  and  feet.  .  .  .  Duval 
also  looked  after  the  human  debris,  and  gave 
it  decent  sepulture. 

Thus  our  function  was  not  only  to  tend  the 
living,  but  also  to  honour  the  dead.  The  care 
of    what    was    magniloquently    termed    their 

'^estate"  fell  to  our  manager,  S .     It  was 

he  who  put  into   a   little   canvas  bag  all  the 


ISO       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

papers  and  small  possessions  found  on  the 
victims.  He  devoted  days  and  nights  to  a 
kind  of  funereal  bureaucracy,  Inevitable  even 
under  the  fire  of  the  enemy.  His  occupation, 
moreover,  was  not  exempt  from  moral  diffi- 
culties. Thus  he  found  in  the  pocket  of  one 
dead  man  a  woman^s  card  which  it  was  im- 
possible to  send  on  to  his  family,  and  in  an- 
other case,  a  collection  of  songs  of  such  a 
nature  that  after  due  dehberation  it  was  de- 
cided to  burn  them. 
I   Let  us  purify  the  memories  of  our  martyrs ! 

*  *  * 

We  had  several  German  wounded  to  at- 
tend. One  of  these,  whose  leg  I  had  to  take 
off,  overwhelmed  me  with  thanks  in  his  na- 
tive tongue;  he  had  lain  for  six  days  on 
ground  over  which  artillery  played  unceas- 
ingly, and  contemplated  his  return  to  life  and 
the  care  bestowed  on  him  with  a  kind  of  stu- 
pefaction. 

Another,  who  had  a  shattered  arm,  gave  us 
a  good  deal  of  trouble  by  his  amazing  un- 
cleanliness.  Before  giving  him  the  ansesthetic, 
the  orderly  took  from  his  mouth  a  set  of  false 


VERDUN  131 

teeth,  which  he  confessed  he  had  not  removed 
for  several  months,  and  which  exhaled  an 
unimaginable  stench. 

I  remember,  too,  a  little  fair-haired  chap  of 
rather  chilly  demeanour,  who  suddenly  said 
*'Good-bye"  to  me  with  lips  that  quivered  like 
those  of  a  child  about  to  cry. 

The    interpreter    from    Headquarters,    my 

friend  C ,  came  to  see  them  all  as  soon  as 

they  had  got  over  their  stupor,  and  interro- 
gated them  with  placid  patience,  comparing 
all  their  statements  in  order  to  glean  some 
trustworthy  indication. 

^F  *P  ^F 

Thus  days  and  nights  passed  by  in  ceaseless 
toil,  under  a  perpetual  menace,  in  the  midst 
of  an  ever-growing  fatigue  which  gave  things 
the  substance  and  aspects  they  take  on  in  a 
nightmare. 

The  very  monotony  of  this  existence  was 
made  up  of  a  thousand  dramatic  details,  each 
of  which  would  have  been  an  event  in  normal 
life.  I  still  see,  as  through  the  mists  of  a 
dream,  the  orderly  of  a  dying  captain  sobbing 
at  his  bedside   and   covering  his  hands   with 


132        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

kisses.  I  still  hear  the  little  lad  whose  life 
blood  had  ebbed  away,  saying  to  me  in  im- 
ploring tones:  "Save  me,  Doctor!  Save  me 
for  my  mother!"  .  .  .  and  I  think  a  man 
must  have  heard  such  words  in  such  a  place 
to  understand  them  aright,  I  think  that  every 
day  this  man  must  gain  a  stricter,  a  more  pre- 
cise, a  more  pathetic  idea  of  suffering  and  of 
death. 

One  Sunday  evening,  the  bombardment  was 
renewed  with  extraordinary  violence.    We  had 

just  sent  off  General  S ,  who  was  smoking 

on  his  stretcher,  and  chatting  calmly  and 
cheerfully;  I  was  operating  on  an  infantryman 
who  had  deep  wounds  in  his  arms  and  thighs. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  great  commotion.  A 
hurricane  of  shells  fell  upon  the  hospital. 
I  heard  a  crash  which  shook  the  ground  and 
the  walls  violently,  then  hurried  footsteps  and 
cries  in  the  passage. 

I  looked  at  the  man  sleeping  and  breathing 
heavily,  and  I  almost  envied  his  forgetfulness 
of  all  things,  the  dissolution  of  his  being  in  a 
darkness  so  akin  to  liberating  death.  My 
task  completed,  I  went  out  to  view  the  dam- 
age. 


VERDUN  133 

A  shell  had  fallen  on  an  angle  of  the 
building,  blowing  In  the  windows  of  three 
wards,  scattering  stones  In  all  directions, 
and  riddling  walls  and  ceilings  with  large 
fragments  of  metal.  The  wounded  were 
moaning,  shrouded  In  acrid  smoke.  They 
were  lying  so  close  to  the  ground  that  they 
had  been  struck  only  by  plaster  and  splinters 
of  glass;  but  the  shock  had  been  so  great 
that  nearly  all  of  them  died  within  the 
following   hour. 

The  -next  day  it  was  decided  that  we  should 
change  our  domicile,  and  we  made  ready  to 
carry  off  our  wounded  and  remove  our  hospital 
to  a  point  rather  more  distant. 

It  was  a  very  clear  day.  In  front  of  us, 
the  main  road  was  covered  with  men,  whom 
motor  vehicles  were  depositing  in  groups  every 
minute.  We  were  finishing  our  final  operations 
and  looking  out  occasionally  at  these  men 
gathered  in  the  sun,  on  the  slopes  and  in  the 
ditches.  At  about  one  o'clock  In  the  afternoon 
the  air  was  rent  by  the  shriek  of  high  explo- 
sives and  some  shells  fell  In  the  midst  of  the 
groups.  We  saw  them  disperse  through  the 
yellowish  smoke,  and  go  to  lie  down  a  little 


134>        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

farther  off  In  the  fields.  Some  did  not  even 
stir.  Stretcher-bearers  came  up  at  once, 
running  across  the  meadow,  and  brought  us 
two  dead  men,  and  nine  wounded,  who  were 
laid  on  the  operating-table. 

As  we  tended  them  during  the  following 
hour  we  looked  anxiously  at  the  knots  of  men 
who  remained  in  the  open,  and  gradually  in- 
creased, and  we  asked  whether  they  would  not 
soon  go.  But  there  they  stayed,  and  again  we 
heard  the  dull  growl  of  the  discharge,  then  the 
whistling  overhead,  and  the  explosions  of 
some  dozen  shells  falling  upon  the  men. 
Crowding  to  the  window,  we  watched  the 
massacre,   and  waited  to   receive  the  victims. 

My  colleague  M drew  my  attention  to  a 

soldier  w^ho  was  running  up  the  grassy  slope 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  and  whom  the 
shells  seemed  to  be  pursuing. 

These  were  the  last  wounded  we  received 
in  the  suburb  of  G .  Three  hours  after- 
wards, we  took  up  the  same  life  and  the  same 
labours  again,  some  way  off,  for  many  weeks 
more.  .  .  . 

Thus  things  went  on,  until  the  day  when  we, 
in  our  turn,  were  carried  off  by  the  automobiles 


VERDUN  135 

of  the  Grand'  Route,  and  landed  on  the  banks 
of  a  fair  river  in  a  village  where  there  were 
trees  in  blossom,  and  where  the  next  morning 
we  were  awakened  by  the  sound  of  bells  and 
the  voices  of  women. 


THE  SACRIFICE 

WE  had  had  all  the  windows  opened. 
From  their  beds,  the  wounded  could 
see,  through  the  dancing  waves  of 
heat,  the  heights  of  Berru  and  Nogent 
I'Abbesse,  the  towers  of  the  Cathedral,  still 
crouching  like  a  dying  lion  in  the  middle  of 
the  plain  of  Reims,  and  the  chalky  lines  of  the 
trenches  intersecting  the  landscape. 

A  kind  of  torpor  seemed  to  hang  over  the 
battle-field.  Sometimes,  a  perpendicular  col- 
umn of  smoke  rose  up,  in  the  motionless 
distance,  and  the  detonation  reached  us  a  little 
while  afterwards,  as  if  astray,  and  ashamed 
of  outraging  the  radiant  silence. 

It  was  one  of  the  fine  days  of  the  summer  of 
19 1 5,  one  of  those  days  when  the  supreme 
indifference  of  Nature  makes  one  feel  the 
burden  of  war  more  cruelly,  when  the  beauty 
of  the  sky  seems  to  proclaim  its  remoteness 
from  the  anguish  of  the  human  heart. 

We  had  finished  our  morning  round  when 
an  ambulance  drew  up  at  the  entrance. 

136 


THE  SACRIFICE  137 

"Doctor  on  duty!" 

I  went  down  the  steps.  The  chauffeur 
explained : 

''There  are  three  shghtly  wounded  men. 
I  am  going  to  take  on  further,  and  then  there 
are  some  severely  wounded  .  .  ." 

He  opened  the  back  of  his  car.  On  one 
side  three  soldiers  were  seated,  dozing.  On 
the  other,  there  were  stretchers,  and  I  saw 
the  feet  of  the  men  lying  upon  them.  Then, 
from  the  depths  of  the  vehicle  came  a  low, 
grave,  uncertain  voice  which  said: 

"I  am  one  of  the  severely  wounded.  Mon- 


sieur." 


He  was  a  lad  rather  than  a  man.  He  had 
a  little  soft  down  on  his  chin,  a  well-cut 
aquiline  nose,  dark  eyes  to  which  extreme 
weakness  gave  an  appearance  of  exaggerated 
size,  and  the  grey  pallor  of  those  who  have 
lost  much  blood. 

"Oh!  how  tired  I  am!"  he  said. 

He  held  on  to  the  stretcher  with  both 
hands  as  he  was  carried  up  the  steps.  He 
raised  his  head  a  little,  gave  a  glance  full  of 
astonishment,  distress,  and  lassitude  at  the 
green    trees,    the    smiling    hills,    the    glowing 


138        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

horizon,  and  then  he  found  himself  inside  the 
house. 

Here  begins  the  story  of  Gaston  LegHse. 
It  is  a  modest  story  and  a  very  sad  story; 
but  Indeed,  are  there  any  stories  now  In  the 
'world  that  are  not  sad? 

I  will  tell  It  day  by  day,  as  we  lived  It,  as 

it  is  graven  In  my  memory,  and  as  It  Is  graven 

in  your  memory  and  In  your  flesh,  my  friend 

Legllse. 

*  *  * 

Legllse  only  had  a  whiff  of  chloroform,  and 
he  fell  at  once  Into  a  sleep  closely  akin  to 
death. 

"Let  us  make  haste,"  said  the  head  doctor. 
*'We  shall  have  the  poor  boy  dying  on  the 
table." 

Then  he  shook  his  head,  adding: 

"Both  knees!  Both  knees!  What  a  fu- 
ture 1" 

The  burden  of  experience  is  a  sorrowful 
one.  It  Is  always  sorrowful  to  have  sufficient 
memory  to  discern  the  future. 

Small  splinters  from  a  grenade  make  very 
little  wounds  in  a  man's  legs;  but  great 
disorders  may   enter  by   way   of  those   little 


THE  SACRIFICE  139 

wounds,  and  the  knee  Is  such  a  complicated, 
delicate  marvel! 

Corporal  Legllse  Is  In  bed  now.  He  breathes 
with  difficulty,  and  catches  his  breath  now  and 
again  like  a  person  who  has  been  sobbing. 
He  looks  about  him  languidly,  and  hardly 
seems  to  have  made  up  his  mind  to  live.  He 
contemplates  the  bottle  of  serum,  the  tubes, 
the  needles,  all  the  apparatus  set  in  motion  to 
revive  his  fluttering  heart,  and  he  seems  bowed 
down  by  grief.  He  wants  something  to  drink, 
but  he  must  not  have  anything  yet;  he  wants 
to  sleep,  but  we  have  to  deny  sleep  to  those 
who  need  it  most;  he  wants  to  die  perhaps, 
and  we  will  not  let  him. 

He  sees  again  the  listening  post  where  he 
spent  the  night,  In  advance  of  all  his  comrades. 
He  sees  again  the  narrow  doorway  bordered 
by  sandbags  through  which  he  came  out  at 
dawn  to  breathe  the  cold  air  and  look  at  the 
sky  from  the  bottom  of  the  communication- 
trench.  All  was  quiet,  and  the  early  summer 
morning  was  sweet  even  In  the  depths  of  the 
trench.  But  some  one  was  watching  and 
listening  for  the  faint  sound  of  his  footsteps. 
An  Invisible  hand  hurled  a  bomb.    He  rushed 


140        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

back  to  the  door;  but  his  pack  was  on  his 
back,  and  he  was  caught  In  the  aperture  like 
a  rat  in  a  trap.  The  air  was  rent  by  the 
detonation,  and  his  legs  were  rent,  like  the 
pure  air,  like  the  summer  morning,  like  the 
lovely  silence. 

*  5JS  Hi 

The  days  pass,  and  once  more,  the  coursing 
blood  begins  to  make  the  vessels  of  the  neck 
throb,  to  tinge  the  lips,  and  give  depth  and 
brilliance  to  the  eye. 

Death,  which  had  overrun  the  whole  body 
like  an  invader,  retired,  yielding  ground  by 
degrees;  but  it  has  halted  now,  and  makes  a 
stand  at  the  legs;  these  it  will  not  relinquish; 
it  demands  something  by  way  of  spoil;  it  will 
not  be  baulked  of  its  prey  entirely. 

We  fight  for  the  portion  Death  has  chosen. 
The  wounded  Corporal  looks  on  at  our  labours 
and  our  efforts,  like  a  poor  man  who  has  placed 
his  cause  in  the  hands  of  a  knight,  and  who  can 
only  be  a  spectator  of  the  combat,  can  only 
pray  and  wait. 

*,  *  * 

We  shall  have  to  give  the  monster  a  share; 


THE  SACRIFICE  141 

one  of  the  legs  must  go.  Now  another  struggle 
begins  with  the  man  himself.  Several  times 
a  day  I  go  and  sit  by  his  bed.  Ail  our  attempts 
dt  conversation  break  down  one  by  one.  We 
always  end  in  the  same  silence  and  anxiety. 
To-day  Leglise  said  to  me: 

"Oh!  I  know  quite  well  what  you're 
thinking  about!" 

As  I  made  no  answer,  he  intreated: 

"Perhaps  we  could  wait  a  little  longer? 
Perhaps  to-morrow  I  may  be  better  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly,  in  great  confusion: 

"Forgive  me.  I  do  trust  you  all.  I  know 
what  you  do  is  necessary.  But  perhaps  it 
will  not  be  too  late  in  two  or  three  days.  .  .  ." 

Two  or  three  days !   We  will  see  to-morrow. 

The  nights  are  terribly  hot;  I  suffer  for 
his  sake. 

I  come  to  see  him  in  the  evening  for  the  last 
time,  and  encourage  him  to  sleep.  But  his 
eyes  are  wide  open  in  the  night  and  I  feel 
that  they  are  anxiously  fixed  on  mine. 

Fever  makes  his  voice  tremble. 

"How  can  I  sleep  with  all  the  things  I  am 
thinking  about?" 

Then  he  adds  faintly: 


142        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

"Must  you?     Must  you?" 
The  darkness  gives  me  courage,  and  I  nod 
my  head:   "Yes!" 

*  *  * 

As  I  finish  his  dressings,  I  speak  from  the 
depths  of  my  heart: 

"Legllse,  we  will  put  you  to  sleep  to-mor- 
row. We  will  make  an  examination  without 
letting  you  suffer,  and  we  will  do  what  Is 
necessary." 

"I  know  quite  well  that  you  will  take  it 
off." 

"We  shall  do  what  we  must  do." 

I  divine  that  the  corners  of  his  mouth  are 
drawn  down  a  little,  and  that  his  lips  are 
quivering.    He  thinks  aloud: 

"If  only  the  other  leg  was  all  right!" 

I  have  been  thinking  of  that  too,  but  I 
pretend  not  to  have  heard.  Sufficient  unto 
the  day  Is  the  evil  thereof. 

I  spend  part  of  the  afternoon  sewing  pieces 
of  waterproof  stuff  together.    He  asks  me: 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

*T  am  making  you  a  mask,  to  give  you 
ether." 


THE  SACRIFICE  143 

"Thank  you;  I  can't  bear  the  smell  of 
chloroform." 

I  answer  "Yes,  that's  why."  The  real 
reason  is  that  we  are  not  sure  he  could  bear 
the  brutal  chloroform,  in  his  present  state. 

jjc  *  * 

Leglise's  leg  was  taken  off  at  the  thigh  this 
morning.  He  was  still  unconscious  when  we 
carried  him  into  the  dark  room  to  examine 
his  other  leg  under  the  X-rays. 

He  was  already  beginning  to  moan  and  to 
open  his  eyes,  and  the  radiographer  was  not 
hurrying.  I  did  all  I  could  to  hasten  the 
business,  and  to  get  him  back  into  his  bed. 
Thus  he  regained  consciousness  In  bright  sun- 
shine. 

What  would  he,  who  once  again  was  so 
close  to  the  dark  kingdom,  have  thought  if  he 
had  awakened  In  a  gloom  peopled  by  shadows, 
full  of  whisperings,  sparks  and  flashes  of  light? 

As  soon  as  he  could  speak,  he  said  to  me: 

"You  have  cut  off  my  leg?" 

I  made  a  sign.     His  eyes  filled,  and  as  his 

head  was  low,  the  great  tears  trickled  on  to 

the  pillow. 

*  *  * 


144        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

To-day  he  is  calmer.  The  first  dressings 
were  very  painful.  He  looked  at  the  raw, 
bloody,  oozing  stump,  trembling,  and  said: 

"It  looks  pretty  horrible!" 

We  took  so  many  precautions  that  now  he 
is  refreshed  for  a  few  hours. 

*'They  say  you  are  to  have  the  Military 
Medal,"  the  head  doctor  told  him. 

Leglise  confided  to  me  later,  with  some 
hesitation: 

''I  don't  suppose  they  would  really  give  me 
the  medal!" 

"And  why  not?" 

"I  was  punished;  one  of  my  men  had  some 
buttons  off  his  overcoat." 

Oh,  my  friend,  scrupulous  lad,  could  I  love 
my  countrymen  if  they  could  remember  those 
wretched  buttons  for  an  instant? 

"My  men!"  he  said  gravely.  I  look  at  his 
narrow  chest,  his  thin  face,  his  boyish  forehead 
with  the  serious  furrow  on  it  of  one  who 
accepts  all  responsibilities,  and  I  do  not  know 
how  to  show  him  my  respect  and  affection. 


Leglise's  fears  were  baseless.  General  G- 


THE  SACRIFICE  145 

arrived  just  now.  I  met  him  on  the  terrace. 
His  face  pleased  me.  It  was  refined  and  In- 
telligent. 

"I  have  come  to  see  Corporal  Legllse,''  he 
said. 

I  took  him  Into  the  ward,  full  of  wounded 
men,  and  he  at  once  went  towards  Leglise 
unhesitatingly,  as  If  he  knew  him  perfectly. 

''How  are  you?"  he  asked,  taking  the 
young  man's  hand. 

''Mon  General,  theyVe  cut  off  my  leg  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  my  poor  fellow.  And 
I  have  brought  you  the  MIHtary  Medal." 

He  pinned  It  on  to  Legllse's  shirt,  and 
kissed  my  friend  on  both  cheeks,  simply  and 
affectionately. 

Then  he  talked  to  him  again  for  a  few 
minutes. 

I  was  greatly  pleased.  Really,  this  General 
is  one  of  the  right  sort, 

*l*  I*  •P 

The  medal  has  been  wrapped  In  a  bit  of 
muslin,  so  that  the  flies  may  not  soil  It,  and 
hung  on  the  wall  over  the  bed.  It  seems  to  be 
watching  over  the  wounded  man,  to  be  looking 
on    at    what    Is    happening.      Unfortunately, 


146       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

what  it  sees  is  sad  enough.  The  right  leg, 
the  only  leg,  is  giving  us  trouble  now.  The 
knee  is  diseased,  It  is  in  a  very  bad  state,  and 
all  we  have  done  to  save  it  seems  to  have  been 
in  vain.  Then  a  sore  has  appeared  on  the 
back,  and  then  another  sore.  Every  morning, 
we  pass  from  one  misery  to  another,  telling 
the  beads  of  suffering  in  due  order. 

So  a  man  does  not  die  of  pain,  or  Leglise 
would  certainly  be  dead.  I  see  him  still, 
opening  his  eyes  desperately  and  checking  the 
scream  that  rises  to  his  lips.  Oh!  I  thought 
indeed  that  he  was  going  to  die.  But  his 
agony  demands  full  endurance;  it  does  not 
even  stupefy  those  it  assails. 

I  call  on  every  one  for  help. 

"Genest,  Barrassin,  Prevot,  come,  all  of 
you." 

Yes,  let  ten  of  us  do  our  best  if  necessary, 
to  support  Leglise,  to  hold  him,  to  soothe  him. 
A  minute  of  his  endurance  is  equal  to  ten 
years  of  such  effort  as  ours. 

Alas!  were  there  a  hundred  of  us  he  would 
still  have  to  bear  the  heaviest  burden  alone. 

All  humanity  at  this  hour  is  bearing  a  very 
cruel  burden.      Every  minute   aggravates   its 


THE  SACRIFICE  147 

sufferings,  and  will  no  one,  no  one  come  to  its 
aid? 

4!  4c  4: 

We  made  an  examination  of  the  wounded 
man,  together  with  our  chief,  who  muttered 
almost  inaudibly  between  his  teeth: 

*'He  must  be  prepared  for  another  sacrifice.'* 

Yes,  the  sacrifice  is  not  yet  entirely  con- 
summated. 

But  Leglise  understood.  He  no  longer 
weeps.  He  has  the  weary  and  somewhat 
bewildered  look  of  the  man  who  is  rowing 
against  the  storm.  I  steal  a  look  at  him, 
and  he  says  at  once  in  a  clear,  calm,  resolute 
voice : 

*'I  would  Tiuch  rather  die." 

I  go  Into  the  garden.  It  is  a  brilliant 
morning,  but  I  can  see  nothing,  I  want  to  see 
nothing.     I  repeat  as  I  walk  to  and  fro: 

*'He  would  much  rather  die." 

And  I  ask  despairingly  whether  he  is  not 
right  perhaps. 

All  the  poplars  rustle  softly.  With  one 
voice,  the  voice  of  Summer  itself,  they  say: 
**No!    No!    He  Is  not  right!" 

A  little  beetle  crosses  the  path  before  me. 


148        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

I  step  on  it  unintentionally,  but  it  flies  away 
in  desperate  haste.  It  too  has  answered  in 
its  own  way:  *'No,  really,  your  friend  is  not 
right." 

*'Tell  him  he  is  wrong,''  sing  the  swarm  of 
insects  that  buzz  about  the  lime-tree. 

And  even  a  loud  roar  from  the  guns  that 
travels  across  the  landscape  seems  to  say 
gruffly:  "He  is  wrong!    He  is  wrong!" 

*  *  * 

During  the  evening  the  chief  came  back  to 
see  Leglise,  who  said  to  him  with  the  same 
mournful  gravity: 

"No,  I  won't,  Monsieur,  I  would  rather  die." 

We  go  down  into  the  garden,  and  the  chief 
says  a  strange  thing  to  me: 

"Try  to  convince  him.  I  begin  at  last  to 
feel  ashamed  of  demanding  such  a  sacrifice 
from  him." 

And  I  too  .  .  .  am  I  not  ashamed? 

I  consult  the  warm,  star-decked  night;  I  am 
quite  sure  now  that  he  is  wrong,  but  I  don't 
know  how  to  tell  him  so.  What  can  I  offer 
him  In  exchange  for  the  thing  I  am  about  to 
ask  him?     Where  shall  I  find  the  words  that 


THE  SACRIFICE  149 

induce  a  man  to  live?  Oh  you,  all  things 
around  me,  tell  me,  repeat  to  me  that  it  is 
sweet  to  live,  even  with  a  body  so  grievously 
mutilated. 

This  morning  I  extracted  a  little  projectile 
from  one  of  his  wounds.  He  secretly  con- 
cluded that  this  would  perhaps  make  the 
great  operation  unnecessary,  and  it  hurt  me 
to  see  his  joy.  I  could  not  leave  him  this 
satisfaction. 

The  struggle  began  again;  this  time  it  was 
desperate.  For  we  have  no  time  to  lose. 
Every  hour  of  delay  exhausts  our  man  fur- 
ther. A  few  days  more,  and  there  will  be 
no  choice  open  to  him :  only  death,  after  a  long 
ordeal.  .  .  . 

He  repeats : 

"I  am  not  afraid,  but  I  would  rather  die." 

Then  I  talk  to  him  as  if  I  were  the  advocate 
of  Life.  Who  gave  me  this  right?  Who  gave 
me  eloquence?  The  things  I  said  were  just 
the  right  things,  and  they  came  so  readily 
that  now  and  then  I  was  afraid  of  holding  out 
so  sure  a  promise  of  a  life  I  am  not  certain 
I  can  preserve,  of  guaranteeing  a  future  that 
is  not  in  man's  hands. 


150       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Gradually,  I  feel  his  resistance  weakening. 
There  is  something  In  Legllse  which  Involun- 
tarily sides  with  me  and  pleads  with  me. 
There  are  moments  when  he  does  not  know 
what  to  say,  and  formulates  trivial  objec- 
tions, just  because  there  are  others  so  much 
weightier. 

"I  live  with  my  mother,"  he  says.  "I  am 
twenty  years  old.  What  work  Is  there  for  a 
cripple?  Ought  I  to  live  to  suffer  poverty 
and  misery?" 

"Legllse,  all  France  owes  you  too  much, 
^she  would  blush  not  to  pay  her  debt." 

And  I  promise  again,  in  the  name  of  our 

:ountry,  sure  that  she  will  never  fall  short  of 

[what  I  undertake  for  her.    The  whole  French 

'nation  is  behind  me  at  this  moment,   silently 

ratifying  my  promise. 

We  are  at  the  edge  of  the  terrace;  evening 
has  come.  I  hold  his  burning  wrist  in  which 
the  feeble  pulse  beats  with  exhausted  fury. 
The  night  is  so  beautiful,  so  beautiful!  Rockets 
rise  abov^e  the  hills,  and  fall  slowly  bathing  the 
horizon  in  silvery  rays.  The  lightning  of  the 
guns  flashes  furtively,  like  a  winking  eye.  In 
spite  of  all  this,  in  spite  of  war,  the  night  is 


THE  SACRIFICE  151 

like  waters  dark  and  divine.  Leglise  breathes 
it  in  to  his  wasted  breast  in  long  draughts, 
and  says : 

*'Oh,    I    don't   know,    I    don't    know!   .  .  . 
Wait  another  day,  please,  please.  .  .  ." 


We  waited  three  whole  days,  and  then 
Leglise  gave  in. 

"Well,  do  what  you  must.  Do  what  you 
like.'* 

On  the  morning  of  the  operation,  he  asked 
to  be  carried  down  to  the  ward  by  the  steps 
into  the  park.  I  went  with  him,  and  I  saw 
him  looking  at  all  things  round  him,  as  If 
taking  them  to  witness. 

If  only,  only  it  is  not  too  late! 

Again  he  was  laid  on  the  table.  Again  we 
cut  through  flesh  and  bones.  The  second  leg 
was  amputated  at  the  thigh. 

I  took  him  in  my  arms  to  lay  him  on  his  bed, 
and  he  was  so  light,  so  light.  .  .  . 

This  time  when  he  woke  he  asked  no 
question.  But  I  saw  his  hands  groping  to 
feel  where  his  body  ended. 


152        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

A  few  days  have  passed  since  the  operation. 
We  have  done  all  it  was  humanly  possible  to 
do,  and  Leglise  comes  back  to  life  with  a  kind 
of  bewilderment. 

''I  thought  I  should  have  died,"  he  said  to 
me  this  morning,  while  I  was  encouraging  him 
to   eat. 

He  added: 

*'When  I  went  down  to  the  operation-ward, 
I  looked  well  at  everything,  and  I  thought  it 
was  for  the  last  time." 

*'Look,  dear  boy.  Everything  is  just  the 
same,  just  as  beautiful  as  ever." 

*'0h  I"  he  says,  going  back  to  his  memories, 
*'I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  die." 

To  make  up  one's  mind  to  die  is  to  take  a 
certain  resolution,  in  the  hope  of  becoming 
quieter,  calmer,  and  less  unhappy.  The  man 
who  makes  up  his  mind  to  die  severs  a  good 
many  ties,  and  indeed  actually  dies  to  some 
extent. 

With  secret  anxiety,  I  say  gently,  as  if  I 
were  asking  a  question: 

*'It  is  always  good  to  eat,  to  drink,  to 
breathe,  to  see  the  light.  .  .  . 

He    does    not    answer.       He    is    dreaming. 


THE  SACRIFICE  153 

I    spoke   too    soon.       I    go    away,    still    anx- 
ious. 

We  have  some  bad  moments  yet,  but  the 
fever  gradually  abates.  I  have  an  impression 
that  Leglise  bears  his  pain  more  resolutely, 
like  one  who  has  given  all  he  had  to  give,  and 
fears  nothing  further. 

When  I  have  finished  the  dressing,  I  turned 
him  over  on  his  side,  to  ease  his  sore  back. 
He  smiled  for  the  first  time  this  morning, 
saying: 

"I  have  already  gained  something  by  get- 
ting rid  of  my  legs.  I  can  lie  on  my  side 
now." 

But  he  cannot  balance  himself  well;  he  is 
afraid  of  falling. 

Think  of  him,  and  you  will  be  afraid  with 
him  and  for  him. 

Sometimes  he  goes  to  sleep  In  broad  day- 
light and  dozes  for  a  few  minutes.  He  has 
shrunk  to  the  size  of  a  child.  I  lay  a  piece  of 
gauze  over  his  face,  as  one  does  to  a  child, 
to  keep  the  flies  of^.  I  bring  him  a  little  bottle 
of  Eau  de  Cologne  and  a  fan,  they  help  him 
to  bear  the  final  assaults  of  the  fever. 


154<        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

He    begins    to    smoke    again.      We    smoke 

together  on  the  terrace,  where  I  have  had  his 

bed  brought.     I  show  him  the  garden  and  say: 

"In  a   few  days,   I  will  carry  you  down  into 

the  garden." 

*  *  * 

He  is  anxious  about  his  neighbours,  asks 
their  names,  and  inquires  about  their  wounds. 
For  each  one  he  has  a  compassionate  word 
that  comes  from  the  depths  of  his  being.  He 
says  to  me : 

"I  hear  that  little  Camus  is  dead.  Poor 
Camus!" 

His  eyes  fill  with  tears.  I  was  almost  glad 
to  see  them.  He  had  not  cried  for  so  long. 
He  adds : 

"Excuse  me,  I  used  to  see  Camus  some- 
times.    It's  so  sad." 

He  becomes  extraordinarily  sensitive.  He  is 
touched  by  all  he  sees  around  him,  by  the 
sufferings  of  others,  by  their  individual  mis- 
fortunes. He  vibrates  like  an  elect  soul, 
exalted  by  a  great  crisis. 

When  he  speaks  of  his  own  case,  it  is  always 
to  make  light  of  his  misfortune: 

"Dumont    got    it    in    the    belly.      Ah,    it's 


THE  SACRIFICE  155 

lucky  for  me  that  none  of  my  organs  are 
touched;   I   can't  complain." 

I  watch  him  with  admiration,  but  I  am 
waiting  for  something  more,  something 
more.  .   .   . 

His  chief  crony  is  Legrand. 

Legrand  is  a  stonemason  with  a  face  like 
a  young  girl.  He  has  lost  a  big  piece  of  his 
skull.  He  has  also  lost  the  use  of  language, 
and  we  teach  him  words,  as  to  a  baby.  He  is 
beginning  to  get  up  now,  and  he  hovers  round 
Leglise's  bed  to  perform  little  services  for  him. 
He  tries  to  master  his  rebellious  tongue,  but 
falling  in  the  attempt,  he  smiles,  and  expresses 
himself  with  a  limpid  glance,  full  of  intelligence. 

Leglise  pities  him  too: 

"It  must  be  wretched  not  to  be  able  to 
speak.'' 

H:  4:  3|c 

To-day  we  laughed,  yes,  indeed,  we  laughed 
heartily,  Leglise,  the  orderlies  and  I. 

We  were  talking  of  his  future  pension  while 
the  dressings  were  being  prepared,  and  some- 
one said  to  him : 

*Tou  w^lll  live  like  a  little  man  of  means." 

Leglise  looked  at  his  body  and  answered : 


156       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

"Oh,  yes,  a  little  man,  a  very  little  man." 

The  dressing  went  off  very  well.  To  make 
our  task  easier,  Leglise  suggested  that  he 
should  hold  on  to  the  head  of  the  bed  with 
both  hands  and  throw  himself  back  on  his 
shoulders,  holding  his  stumps  up  in  the  air. 
It  was  a  terrible,  an  unimaginable  sight;  but 
he  began  to  laugh,  and  the  spectacle  became 
comic.  We  all  laughed.  But  the  dressing 
was  easy  and  was  quickly  finished. 

The  stumps  are  healing  healthily.  In  the 
afternoon,  he  sits  up  in  bed.  He  begins  to 
read  and  to  smoke,  chatting  to  his  companions. 

I  explain  to  him  how  he  will  be  able  to 
walk  with  artificial  legs.     He  jokes  again: 

"I  was  rather  short  before;  but  now  I  can 
be  just  the  height  I  choose." 

*  *  * 

I  bring  him  some  cigarettes  that  had  been 
sent  me  for  him,  some  sweets  and  dainties. 
He  makes  a  sign  that  he  wants  to  whisper  to 
me,  and  says  very  softly: 

"I  have  far  too  many  things.  But  Legrand 
is  very  badly  off;  his  home  is  in  the  invaded 
district,  and  he  has  nothing,  they  can't  send 
him  anything." 


THE  SACRIFICE  157 

I  understand.  I  come  back  presently  with 
a  packet  In  which  there  are  tobacco,  some  good 
cigarettes,  and  also  a  little  note.  .  .  . 

*'Here  is  something  for  Legrand.  You 
must  give  It  to  him.    I'm  off." 

In  the  afternoon  I  find  Leglise  troubled  and 
perplexed. 

"I  can't  give  all  this  to  Legrand  myself, 
he  would  be  offended." 

So  then  we  have  to  devise  a  discreet  method 
of  presentation. 

It  takes  some  minutes.  He  invents  romantic 
possibilities.  He  becomes  flushed,  animated, 
interested. 

"Think,"  I  say,  "find  a  way.  Give  it  to 
him  yourself,  from  some  one  or  other." 

But  Leglise  is  too  much  afraid  of  wounding 
Legrand's  susceptibilities.  He  ruminates  on 
the  matter  till  evening. 

*  *  * 

The  little  parcel  is  at  the  head  of  Legrand's 
bed.  Leglise  calls  my  attention  to  it  with  his 
chin,  and  whispers: 

"I  found  some  one  to  give  it  to  him.  He 
doesn't  know  who  sent  it.  He  has  made  all 
sorts  of  guesses;  it  is  very  amusing!" 


158        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Oh,  Leglise,  can  it  be  that  there  Is  still 
something  amusing,  and  that  it  is  to  be  kind? 
Isn't  this  alone  enough  to  make  it  worth 
while  to  live? 

So  now  we  have  a  great  secret  between  us. 
All  the  morning,  as  I  come  and  go  in  the  ward, 
he  looks  at  me  meaningly,  and  smiles  to  him- 
self. Legrand  gravely  offers  me  a  cigarette; 
Leglise  finds  it  hard  not  to  burst  out  laughing. 
But  he  keeps  his  counsel. 

The  orderlies  have  put  him  on  a  neighbour- 
ing bed  while  they  make  his.  He  stays  there 
very  quietly,  his  bandaged  stumps  in  view,  and 
sings  a  little  song,  like  a  child's  cradle-song. 
Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  begins  to  cry,  sobbing 
aloud. 

I  put  my  arm  round  him  and  ask  anxiously: 
*'Why?    What  is  the  matter?" 
Then  he  answers  In  a  broken  voice : 
*'I  am  crying  with  joy  and  thankfulness." 
Oh!    I  did  not  expect  so  much.     But  I  am 
very   happy,    much    comforted.       I    kiss    him, 
he  kisses  me,  and  I  think  I  cried  a  little  too. 


I  have  wrapped  him  In  a  flannel  dressing- 


THE  SACRIFICE  159 

gown,  and  I  carry  him  in  my  arms.  I  go 
down  the  steps  to  the  park  very  carefully, 
like  a  mother  carrying  her  new-born  babe  for 
the  first  time,  and  I  call  out:  "An  arm-chair! 
An  arm-chair." 

He  clings  to  my  neck  as  I  walk,  and  says 
in  some  confusion; 

"I  shall  tire  you." 

No  Indeed!  I  am  too  well  pleased.  I  would 
not  let  any  one  take  my  place.  The  armi- 
chalr  has  been  set  under  the  trees,  near  a  grove. 
I  deposit  Legllse  among  the  cushions.  They 
bring  him  a  kepi.  He  breathes  the  scent  of 
green  things,  of  the  newly  mown  lawns,  of  the 
warm  gravel.  He  looks  at  the  fagade  of  the 
mansion,  and  says: 

*T  had  not  even  seen  the  place  where  I 
very  nearly  died." 

All   the   wounded   who    are   walking   about 

come  and  visit  him;  they  almost  seem  to  be 

paying  him  homage.     He  talks  to  them  with 

a    cordial    authority.      Is    he    not    the    chief 

among  them,   in  virtue   of  his  sufferings  and 

his  sacrifice? 

*  *  * 

Some    one    in    the   ward   was   talking:   this 


160       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

morning     of     love     and     marriage,     and     a 
home. 

I    glanced    at   Legllse    now    and   then;    he 
seemed  to  be  dreaming  and  he  murmured: 

"Oh,  for  me,  now  .  .  ." 

Then  I  told  him  something  I  knew:  I  know 
young  girls  who  have  s\|^orn  to  marry  only  a 
mutilated  man.  Well,  we  must  believe  in  the 
vows  of  these  young  girls.  France  is  a  country 
richer  in-warnith  of  heart  thanj£_any_pther 
^irtue.  It  is'  a  blessed  duty  to  give  happiness 
to  those  who  have  sacrificed  so  much.  And  a 
thousand  hearts,  the  generous  hearts  of  women, 
applaud  me  at  this  moment. 

Leglise  listens,  shaking  his  head.  He  does 
not  venture  to  say  "No." 

3|5  ^F  ^* 

Leglise  has  •  not  only  the  Military  Medal, 
but  also  the  War  Cross.  The  notice  has  just 
come.     He  reads  it  with  blushes. 

"I  shall  never  dare  to  show  this,"  he  says; 
"it  is  a  good  deal  exaggerated." 

He  hands  me  the  paper,  which  states,  in 
substance,  that  Corporal  Leglise  behaved  with 
great  gallantry  under  a  hail  of  bombs,  and 
that  his  left  leg  has  been  amputated. 


THE  SACRIFICE  I6l 

"I  didn't  behave  with  great  gallantry/'  he 
says;  *'I  was  at  my  post,  that's  all.  As  to 
the  bombs,  I  only  got  one." 

I  reject  this  point  of  view  summarily. 

"Wasn't  it  a  gallant  act  to  go  to  that  ad- 
vanced post,  so  near  the  enemy,  all  alone,  at 
the  head  of  all  the  Frenchmen?  Weren't 
they  all  behind  you,  to  the  very  end  of  the 
country,  right  away  to  the  Pyrenees?  Did 
they  not  all  rely  on  your  coolness,  your  keen 
sight,  your  vigilance?  You  were  only  hit 
by  one  bomb,  but  I  think  you  might  have  had 
several,  and  still  be  with  us.  And  besides, 
the  notice,  far  from  being  exaggerated,  is 
really  insufficient;  it  says  you  have  lost  a 
leg,  whereas  you  have  lost  two !  It  seems  to 
me  that  this  fully  compensates  for  anything 
excessive  with  regard  to  the  bombs." 

^'That's  true!"  agrees  Leglise,  laughing. 
**But  I  don't  want  to  be  made  out  a  hero." 

*'My  good  lad,  people  won't  ask  what  you 
think  before  they  appreciate  and  honour  you. 
It  will  be  quite  enough  to  look  at  your  body." 

*  *  * 

Then  we  had  to  part,  for  the  war  goes  on, 
and  every  day  there  are  fresh  wounded. 


162       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Legllse  left  us  nearly  cured.  He  left  with 
some  comrades,  and  he  was  not  the  least 
lively  of  the  group. 

"I  was  the  most  severely  wounded  man  In 
the  train,"  he  wrote  to  me,  not  without  a 
certain  pride. 

Since  then,  Legllse  has  written  to  me  often. 
His  letters  breathe  a  contented  calm.  I  receive 
them  among  the  vicissitudes  of  the  campaign; 
on  the  highways,  in  wards  where  other  wounded 
men  are  moaning.  In  fields  scoured  by  the 
gallop  of  the  cannonade. 

And  always  something  beside  me  murmurs, 
mutely : 

*'You  see,  you  see,  he  was  wrong  when  he 
said  he  would  rather  die." 

I  am  convinced  of  It,  and  this  is  why  I  have 
told  your  story.  You  will  forgive  me,  won't 
you,  Legllse,  my  friend? 


THE  THIRD  SYMPHONY 

EVERY  morning  the  stretcher-bearers 
brought  VIze-Feldwebel  Spiit  down 
to  the  dressing  ward,  and  his  ap- 
pearance always  introduced  a  certain  chill  in 
the  atmosphere. 

There  are  some  German  wounded  whom 
kind  treatment,  suffering,  or  some  more  ob- 
scure agency  move  to  composition  with  the 
enemy,  and  who  receive  what  we  do  for  them 
with  a  certain  amount  of  gratitude.  Spat 
was  not  one  of  these.  For  weeks  we  had  made 
strenuous  efforts  to  snatch  him  from  death, 
and  then  to  alleviate  his  sufferings,  without 
eliciting  the  slightest  sign  of  satisfaction  from 
him,  or  receiving  the  least  word  of  thanks. 

He  could  speak  a  little  French,  which  he 
utilised  strictly  for  his  material  wants,  to 
say,  for  Instance,  ''A  little  more  cotton-wool 
under  the  foot.  Monsieur,"  or,  ''Have  I  any 
fever  to-day?" 

Apart  from  this,  he  always  showed  us  the 
same  Icy  face,  the  same  pale,  hard  eyes,  en- 

163 


164>       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYHS 

framed  by  colourless  lashes.  We  gathered, 
from  certain  indications,  that  the  man  was 
Intelligent  and  well  educated;  but  he  was  ob- 
viously under  the  domination  of  a  lively  hatred, 
and  a  strict  sense  of  his  own  dignity. 

He  bore  pain  bravely,  and  like  one  who 
makes  it  a  point  of  honour  to  repress  the  most 
excusable  reactions  of  the  martyred  flesh. 
I  do  not  remember  ever  hearing  him  cry  out, 
though  this  would  have  seemed  to  me  natural 
enough,  and  would  by  no  means  have  lowered 
Monsieur  Spat  In  my  opinion.  All  I  ever 
heard  from  him  was  a  stifled  moan,  the  dull 
panting  of  the  woodman  as  he  swings  his  axe. 

One  day  we  were  obliged  to  give  him  an 
anaesthetic  in  order  to  make  incisions  in  the 
wounds  In  his  leg;  he  turned  very  red  and 
said,  in  a  tone  that  was  almost  imploring: 
*'You  won't  cut  it  off,  gentlemen,  will  you?" 
But  no  sooner  did  he  regain  consciousness  than 
he  at  once  resumed  his  attitude  of  stiff  hos- 
tility. 

After  a  time,  I  ceased  to  believe  that  his 
features  could  ever  express  anything  but  this 
repressed  animosity.  I  was  undeceived  by 
an  unforeseen  incident. 


THE  THIRD  SYMPHONY  165 

The  habit  of  whistling  between  one's  teeth 
IS  a  token,  with  me  as  with  many  other  persons, 
of  a  certain  absorption.  It  is  perhaps  rather 
a  vulgar  habit,  but  I  often  feel  impelled  to 
whistle,  especially  when  I  have  a  serious  piece 
of  work  in  hand. 

One  morning  accordingly,  I  was  jfinishing 
Vize-Feldwebel  Spat's  dressing,  and  whistling 
something  at  random.  I  was  looking  at  his 
leg,  and  was  paying  no  attention  to  his  face, 
when  I  suddenly  became  curiously  aware  that 
the  look  he  had  fixed  upon  me  had  changed  in 
quality,  and  I  raised  my  eyes. 

Certainly,  something  very  extraordinary 
had  taken  place:  the  German's  face  glowed 
with  a  kind  of  warmth  and  contentment,  and 
was  so  smiling  and  radiant  that  I  hardly 
recognised  it.  I  could  scarcely  believe  that 
he  had  been  able  to  improvise  this  face,  which 
was  sensitive  and  trustful,  out  of  the  features 
he  generally  showed  us. 

*'Tell  me.  Monsieur,"  he  murmured,  ''it's 
the  Third  Symphony,  isn't  it,  that  you  are 
.  .  .  what  do  you  call  it  ? — ^yes  .  .  .  whistling. 

First,  I  stopped  whistling.  Then  I  an- 
swered:      "Yes,    I    believe    it    is    the    Third 


166       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Symphony";  then  I  remained  silent  and  con- 
fused. 

A  slender  bridge  had  just  been  flung  across 
the  abyss. 

The  thing  lasted  for  a  few  seconds,  and  I 
was  still  dreaming  of  it  when  once  more  I  felt 
an  icy,  irrevocable  shadow  falling  upon  me — 
the  hostile  glance  of  Herr  Spat. 


GRACE 

IT  IS  a  common  saying  that  all  men  are 
equal  in  the  presence  of  suffering,  but 
I  know  very  well  that  this  is  not  true. 

Auger!  Auger  I  humble  basket-maker  of 
La  Charente,  who  are  you,  you  who  seem  able 
to  suffer  without  being  unhappy?  Why  are 
you  touched  with  grace,  whereas  Gregoire  is 
not?  Why  are  you  the  prince  of  a  world  in 
which  Gregoire  is  merely  a  pariah? 

Kind  ladies  who  pass  through  the  wards 
where  the  wounded  lie,  and  give  them  cig- 
arettes and  sweet-meats,  come  with  me. 

We  will  go  through  the  large  ward  on  the 
first  floor,  where  the  windows  are  caressed  by 
the  boughs  of  chestnut-trees.  I  will  not 
point  out  Auger,  you  will  give  him  the  lion's 
share  of  the  cigarettes  and  sweets  of  your  own 
accord^  but  if  I  don't  point  out  Gregoire,  you 
will  leave  without  noticing  him,  and  he  will 
get  no  sweets,  and  will  have  nothing  to  smoke. 

Ht  *  * 

It  is  not  because  of  this  that  I  call  Gregoire 

167 


168       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

a  pariah.  It  Is  because  of  a  much  sadder  and 
more  Intimate  thing  .  .  .  Gregoire  lacks  en- 
durance, he  Is  not  what  we  call  a  good  patient. 

In  a  general  way  those  who  tend  the 
wounded  call  the  men  who  do  not  give  them 
much  trouble  *'good  patients."  Judged  by 
this  standard,  every  one  In  the  hospital  will 
tell  you  that  Gregoire  Is  not  a  good  patient. 

All  day  long,  he  lies  on  his  left  side,  because 
of  his  wound,  and  stares  at  the  wall.  I 
said  to  him  a  day  or  two  after  he  came: 

*'I  am  going  to  move  you  and  put  you  over 
in  the  other  corner;  there  you  will  be  able  to 
see  your  comrades." 

He  answered,  In  his  dull,  surly  voice: 

*'It's  not  worth  while.    I'm  all  right  here." 

"But  you   can   see   nothing  but  the   wall." 

"That's  quite   enough." 

Scarcely  have  the  stretcher-bearers  touched 
his  bed,  when  Gregoire  begins  to  cry  out  in  a 
doleful,  irritable  tone: 

"Ah!  don't  shake  me  like  that!  Ah,  you 
mustn't  touch  me." 

The  stretcher-bearers  I  give  him  are  very 
gentle  fellows,  and  he  always  has  the  same: 
Paffin,  a  fat  shoe-maker  with  a  stammer,  and 


GRACE  169 

Monsieur  Bouin,  a  professor  of  mathematics, 
with  a  grey  beard  and  very  precise  movements. 

They  take  hold  of  Gregoire  most  carefully 
to  lay  him  on  the  stretcher.  The  wounded 
man  criticises  all  their  movements  peevishly: 

"Ah!  don't  turn  me  over  like  that.  And 
you  must  hold  my  leg  better  than  that!" 

The  sweat  breaks  out  on  Paffin's  face. 
Monsieur  Bouin's  eye-glasses  fall  off.  At  last 
they  bring  the  patient  along. 

As  soon  as  he  comes  into  the  dressing  ward, 
Gregoire  is  pale  and  perspiring.  His  harsh 
tawny  beard  quivers,  hair  by  hair.  I  divine 
all  this,  and  say  a  few  words  of  encouragement 
to  him  from  afar. 

'T  shan't  be  long  with  you  this  morning, 
Gregoire.        You    won't    have    time    to    say 

'oorr 

He  preserves  a  sulky  silence,  full  of  reserva- 
tions. He  looks  like  a  condemned  criminal 
awaiting  execution.  He  Is  so  pre-occupied 
that  he  does  not  even  answer  when  the  sar- 
castic Sergeant  says  as  he  passes  him: 

"Ah!  here's  our  grouser." 

At  last  he  Is  laid  on  the  table  which  the 
wounded  men  call  the  "billiard-table." 


170       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Then,  things  become  very  try^lng.  I  feel  at 
once  that  whatever  I  do,  Gregoire  will  suffer. 
I  uncover  the  wound  in  his  thigh,  and  he 
screams.  I  wash  the  wound  carefully,  and  he 
screams.  I  probe  the  wound,  from  which  I 
remove  small  particles  of  bone,  very  gently, 
and  he  utters  unimaginable  yells.  I  see  his 
tongue  trembling  in  his  open  mouth.  His 
hands  tremble  in  the  hands  that  hold  them. 
I  have  an  impression  that  every  fibre  of  his 
body  trembles,  that  the  raw  flesh  of  the 
wound  trembles  and  retracts.  In  spite  of  my 
determination,  this  misery  affects  me,  and  I 
wonder  whether  I  too  shall  begin  to  tremble 
sympathetically.     I   say: 

"Try  to  be  patient,  my  poor  Gregoire." 

He  replies  In  a  voice  hoarse  with  pain  and 
terror:     "I  can't  help  it." 

I  add,  just  to  say  something:  ^'Courage, 
a  little  courage." 

He  does  not  even  answer,  and  I  feel  that  to 
exhort  him  to  show  courage,  is  to  recommend 
an  impossible  thing,  as  if  I  were  to  advise  him 
to  have  black  eyes  instead  of  his  pale  blue 
ones. 

The  dressing  Is  completed  in  an  atmosphere 


GRACE  171 

of  general  discomfort.  Nothing  could  per- 
suade me  that  Gregoire  does  not  cordially 
detest  me  at  this  moment.  While  they  are 
carrying  him  away,  I  ask  myself  bitterly  why 
Gregoire  is  so  deficient  in  grace,  why  he  cannot 
suffer  decently? 

The  Sergeant  says,  as  he  sponges  the  table : 
*'He's  working  against  one  all  the  time." 
Well,  the  Sergeant  is  wrong.     Gregoire 
not  deliberately  hostile.     Sometimes  I  div 
when   he  knits  his  brows,   that  he   Is  maJ- 
an  effort  to  resist  suffering,  to  meet  it  with  a 
stouter  and  more  cheerful  heart.     But  he  does 
not  know  how  to  set  about  it. 

If  you  were  asked  to  lift  a  railway-engine, 
you  would  perhaps  make  an  effort;  but  you 
would  do  so  without  confidence  and  without 
success.  So  you  must  not  say  hard  things  of 
Gregoire. 

Gregoire  Is  unable  to  bear  suffering,  just  as 
one  is  unable  to  talk  an  unknown  language. 
And,  then.  It  Is  easier  to  learn  Chinese  than  to 
learn  the  art  of  suffering. 

When  I  say  that  he  Is  unable  to  bear  suffer- 
ing, I  really  mean  that  he  has  to  suffer  a  great 
deal    more     than     others.  ...  I     know    the 


/ 


172       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

human  body,  and  I  cannot  be  deceived  as  to 
certain  signs. 

Gregoire  begins  very  badly.  He  reminds 
one  of  those  children  who  have  such  a  terror 
of  dogs  that  they  are  bound  to  be  bitten. 
Gregoire  trembles  at  once.  The  dogs  of  pain 
throw  themselves  upon  this  defenceless  maa 
and  pull  him  down. 

^  4c  4: 

A  great  load  of  misery  Is  heavy  for  a  man  to 
bear  alone,  but  it  is  supportable  when  he  is 
helped.  Unfortunately  Gregoire  has  no 
friends.  He  does  nothing  to  obtain  them,  it 
almost  seems  as  If  he  did  not  want  any. 

He  is  not  coarse,  noisy  and  foul-mouthed, 
like  the  rascal  Groult  who  amuses  the  whole 
ward.     He  is  only  dull  and  reserved. 

He  does  not  often  say  "Thank  you"  when 
he  Is  offered  something,  and  many  touchy 
people  take  offence  at  this. 

When  I  sit  down  by  his  bed,  he  gives  no 
sign  of  any  pleasure  at  my  visit.  I  ask 
him: 

''What  was  your  business  in  civil  life?*' 

He  does  not  answer  immediately.     At  last 


GRACE  173 

he  says:  "Odd  jobs;  I  carried  and  loaded 
here  and  there." 

"Are  you  married?" 

"Yes." 

"Have  you  any  children?" 

"Yes." 

"How  many?" 

"Three." 

The  conversation  languishes.  I  get  up  and 
say:   "Good-bye   till  to-morrow,   Gregoire." 

"Ah!  you  will  hurt  me   again  to-morrow." 

I  reassure  him,  or  at  least  I  try  to  reassure 
him.  Then,  that  I  may  not  go  away  leaving 
a  bad  impression,  I  ask: 

"How  did  you  get  wounded?" 

"Well,  down  there  in  the  plain,  with  the 
others.  .  .  ." 

That  is  all.  I  go  away.  Gregoire's  eyes 
follow  me  for  a  moment,  and  I  cannot  even  say 
whether  he  is  pleased  or  annoyed  by  my  visit. 

Good-bye,  poor  Gregoire.  I  cross  the  ward 
and  go  to  sit  down  by  Auger. 


* 


Auger  is  busy  writing  up  his  "book." 

It  is  a  big  ledger  some  one  has  given  him,  in 


174       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

which  he  notes  the  important  events  of  his 
life. 

Auger  writes  a  round  schoolboy  hand.  In 
fact,  he  can  just  write  sufficiently  well  for  his 
needs,  I  might  almost  say  for  his  pleasure. 

"Would  you  care  to  look  at  my  book?" 
he  says,  and  he  hands  it  to  me  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  has  no  secrets. 

Auger  receives  many  letters,  and  he  copies 
them  out  carefully,  especially  when  they  are 
iine  letters,  full  of  generous  sentiments.  His 
lieutenant,  for  instance,  wrote  him  a  remark- 
able letter. 

He  also  copies  into  his  book  the  letters  he 
writes  to  his  wife  and  his  little  girl.  Then  he 
notes  the  incidents  of  the  day:  "Wound  dressed 
at  10  o'clock.  The  pus  is  diminishing.  After 
dinner  Madame  la  Princesse  Moreau  paid  us 
a  visit,  and  distributed  caps  all  round;  I  got 
a  fine  green  one.  The  little  chap  who  had 
such  a  bad  wound  in  the  belly  died  at  2 
o'clock.  .  .  ." 

Auger  closes  his  book  and  puts  it  back  under 
his  bolster. 

He  has  a  face  that  it  does  one  good  to  look 
at.     His  complexion  is  warm  and  fresh;  his  hair 


GRACE  175 

stiff  and  rather  curly.  He  has  a  youthful 
moustache,  a  well-shaped  chin,  with  a  lively 
dimple  in  the  middle,  and  eyes  which  seem  to 
be  looking  out  on  a  smiling  landscape,  gay 
with  sunshine  and  running  waters. 

*'I  am  getting  on  splendidly,"  he  says  with 
great  satisfaction.  "Would  you  like  to  see 
Mariette?" 

He  lifts  up  the  sheet,  and  I  see  the  apparatus 
in  which  we  have  placed  the  stump  of  his  leg. 
It  makes  a  kind  of  big  white  doll,  which  he 
takes  in  both  hands  with  a  laugh,  and  to  which 
he  has  given  the  playful  name  of  "Mariette." 

Auger  was  a  sapper  in  the  Engineers.  A 
shell  broke  his  thigh  and  tore  off  his  foot.  But 
as  the  foot  was  still  hanging  by  a  strip  of  flesh, 
Auger  took  out  his  pocket-knife,  and  got  rid 
of  It.  Then  he  said  to  his  terror-stricken 
comrades:  "Well,  boys,  that's  all  right.  It 
might  have  been  worse.  Now  carry  me  some- 
where out  of  this." 

"Did  you  suffer  terribly?"     I  asked  him. 

"Well,  Monsieur,  not  as  much  as  you  might 
think.  Honestly,  it  did  not  hurt  so  very,  very 
much.  Afterwards,  indeed,  the  pain  was 
pretty  bad." 


176       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

I  understand  why  every  one  is  fond  of 
Auger.  It  is  because  he  Is  reassuring.  Seeing 
him  and  listening  to  him  one  opines  that  suffer- 
ing Is  not  such  a  horrible  thing  after  all.  Those 
who  live  far  from  the  battle-field,  and  visit 
hospitals  to  get  a  whiff  of  the  war,  look  at 
h  Auger  and  go  away  well  satisfied  with  every- 
\thlng:  current  events,  him,  and  themselves, 
'hey  are  persuaded  that  the  country  is  well 
[efended,  that  our  soldiers  are  brave,  and  that 
founds  and  mutilations,  though  they  may  be 
serious  things,  are  not  unbearable. 

*  *  * 

Yet  pain  has  come  to  Auger  as  to  the  rest. 
But  there  Is  a  way  of  taking  it. 

He  suffers  in  an  enlightened,  Intelligent, 
almost  methodical  fashion.  He  does  not 
confuse  Issues,  and  complain  Indiscriminately. 
Even  when  In  the  hands  of  others,  he  remains 
the  man  who  had  the  courage  to  cut  off  his 
own  foot,  and  finish  the  work  of  the  shrapnel. 
He  Is  too  modest  and  respectful  to  give  advice 
to  the  surgeon,  but  he  offers  him  valuable 
information. 

He  says: 


GRACE  177 

"Just  there  you  are  against  the  bone,  it 
hurts  me  very  much.  Ah!  there  you  can 
scrape,  I  don't  feel  It  much.  Take  care ! 
You're  pressing  rather  too  hard.  All  right: 
you  can  go  on,  I  see  what  It's  for.  .  .  ." 

And  this  Is  how  we  work  together. 

**What  are  you  doing?  Ah,  you're  washing 
it.  I  like  that.  It  does  me  good.  Good 
blood!  Rub  a  little  more  just  there.  You 
don't  know  how  it  Itches.  Oh!  if  you're 
going  to  put  the  tube  In,  you  must  tell  me, 
that  I  may  hold  on  tight  to  the  table." 

So  the  work  gets  on  famously.  Auger  will 
make  a  rapid  and  excellent  recovery.  With 
him,  one  need  never  hesitate  to  do  what  Is 
necessary.  I  wanted  to  give  him  an  anaes- 
thetic before  scraping  the  bone  of  his  leg.  He 
said  ; 

"1  don't  suppose  It  will  be  a  very  terrible 
business.  If  you  don't  mind,  don't  send  me 
to  sleep,  but  just  do  what  is  necessary.  I 
will  see  to  the  rest." 

True,  he  could  not  help  making  a  few 
grimaces.     Then  the  Sergeant  said  to  him : 

"Would  you  like  to  learn  the  song  of  the 
grunting  pigs?" 


178        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

*'How  does  your  song  go?" 

The  Sergeant  begins  in  a  high,  shrill  voice: 

Quand  en  passant  dedans  la  plai-ai-ne 
On  entend  les  cochons  .  .  . 
Cela  proiive  d'une  facon  certai-ai-ne 
Quails  non  pas  Vtrooo  du  ,  ,  .  bouche. 

Auger  begins  to  laugh;  everybody  laughs. 
And  meanwhile  we  are  bending  over  the 
wounded   leg   and    our   work   gets    on    apace. 

"Now,  repeat,"  says  the  Sergeant. 

He  goes  over  it  again,  verse  by  verse,  and 
Auger  accompanies  him. 


ne 


Quand  en  passant  dedans  la  plai-ai- 

Auger  stops  now  and  then  to  make  a  slight 
grimace.  Sometimes,  too,  his  voice  breaks. 
He  apologises  simply: 

"I  could  never  sing  in  tune." 

Nevertheless,  the  song  is  learnt,  more  or 
less,  and  when  the  General  comes  to  visit  the 
hospital.  Auger  says  to  him: 

*^Mon  General,  I  can  sing  you  a  fine  song." 

And  he  would,  the  rascal,  if  the  head  doctor 
did  not  look  reprovingly  at  him. 


/ 


GRACE  179 

It  is  very  dismal,  after  this,  to  attend  to 
Gregoire,  and  to  hear  him  groaning: 

"Ah!  don't  pull  like  that.  You're  dragging 
out  my  heart." 

I  point  out  that  if  he  won't  let  us  attend  to 
him,  he  will  become  much  worse.  Then  he 
begins  to  cry. 

"What  do  I  care,  since  I  shall  die  anyhow?" 

He  has  depressed  the  orderlies,  the  stretcher- 
bearers,  everybody.  He  does  not  discourage 
me;  but  he  gives  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

All  you  gentlemen  who  meet  together  to 
discuss  the  causes  of  the  war,  the  end  of  the 
war,  the  using-up  of  effectives  and  the  future 
bases  of  society,  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  give  you 
my  opinion  on  these  grave  questions.  I  am 
really  too  much  taken  up  with  the  wound  of 
our  unhappy  Gregoire. 

It  is  not  satisfactory,  this  wound,  and  when 
I  look  at  it,  I  cannot  think  of  anything  else; 
the  screams  of  the  wounded  man  would  pre- 
vent me  from  considering  the  conditions  of 
the  decisive  battle  and  the  results  of  the  re- 
arrangement of  the  map  of  Europe  with  suffi- 
cient detachment. 

Listen:  Gregoire  tells  me  he  Is  going  to  die. 


180        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

I  think  and  believe  that  he  is  wrong.     But  he 

certainly  will  die  if  I  do  not  take  it  upon  myself 

to  make  him  suffer.     He  will  die,  because  every 

one  is  forsaking  him.     And  he  has  long  ago 

forsaken  himself. 

*  *  * 

*'My  dear  chap,"  remarked  Auger  to  a 
very  prim  orderly,  *'it  is  no  doubt  unpleasant 
to  have  only  one  shoe  to  put  on,  but  it  gives 
one  a  chance  of  saving.  And  now,  moreover,  I 
only  run  half  as  much  risk  of  scratching  my 
wife  with  my  toe-nails  in  bed  as  you  do.   .   .   ." 

^'Quite  so,"  added  the  Sergeant;  "with 
Mariette  he  will  caress  his  good  lady,  so  to 
speak." 

Auger  and  the  Sergeant  crack  jokes  like 
two  old  cronies.  The  embarrassed  orderly, 
failing  to  find  a  retort,  goes  away  laughing  con- 
strainedly. 

I  sat  down  by  Auger,  and  we  were  left  alone. 

"I  am  a  basket-maker,"  he  said  gravely.  I 
shall  be  able  to  take  up  my  trade  again  more 
or  less.  But  think  of  workers  on  the  land,  like 
Groult,  who  has  lost  a  hand,  and  Lerondeau, 
with  his  useless  leg!  .  .  .  That's  really  ter- 
rible!" 


GRACE  181 

Auger  rolls  his  r's  in  a  way  that  gives 
piquancy  and  vigour  to  his  conversation.  He 
talks  of  others  with  a  natural  magnanimity 
which  comes  from  the  heart,  like  the  expression 
of  his  eyes,  and  rings  true,  like  the  sound  of  his 
voice.  And  then  again,  he  really  need  not 
envy  any  one.  Have  I  not  said  it!  He  is  a 
prince. 

"I  have  had  some  very  grand  visitors,"  he 
says.  "Look,  another  lady  came  a  little  while 
ago,  and  left  me  this  big  box  of  sweets.  Do 
take  one,  Monsieur,  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to 
me.  And  please,  will  you  hand  them  round 
to  the  others,  from  me?" 

He  adds  in  a  lower  tone: 

*'Look  under  my  bed.  I  put  everything  I 
am  given  there.  Really,  there's  too  much. 
Fm  ashamed.  There  are  some  chaps  here 
who  never  get  anything,  and  they  were  brave 
fellows  who  did  their  duty  just  as  well  as  I 
did." 

It  IS  true,  there  are  many  brave  soldiers  in 
the  ward,  but  only  one  Military  Medal  was 
given  among  them,  and  it  came  to  Auger. 
Its  arrival  was  the  occasion  of  a  regular  little 
fete;   his    comrades    all   took  part   in   it   cor- 


182        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

dially,  for  strange  to  say,  no  one  is  jealous  of 
Auger.  A  miracle  indeed!  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  any  other  prince  of  whom  no  one  was 
jealous? 

"Are  you  going?''  said  Auger.  "Please 
just  say  a  few  words  to  Groult.  He  is  a  bit 
of  a  grouser,  but  he  likes  a  talk." 

*  *  * 

Auger  has  given  me  a  lesson.  I  will  go  and 
smoke  a  cigarette  with  Groult,  and  above  all, 
I  will  go  and  see  Gregoire. 

Groult,  indeed,  is  not  altogether  neglected. 
He  is  an  original,  a  perverse  fellow.  He  is 
pointed  out  as  a  curious  animal.  He  gets  his 
share  of  presents  and  attention. 

But  no  one  knows  anything  about  Gregoire; 
he  lies  staring  at  the  wall,  and  growing  thinner 
[every  day,  and  Death  seems  the  only  person 
I  who  is  interested  in  him. 

You  shall  not  die,  Gregoire !  I  vow  to  keep 
hold  of  you,  to  suffer  with  you,  and  to  endure 
your  ill-temper  humbly.  You,  who  seem  to  be 
bearing  the  misery  of  an  entire  world,  shall  not 
be  miserable  all  alone. 

Kind  ladies  who  com.e  to  see  our  wounded 
and     give     them     picture-books,     tri-coloured 


GRACE  183 

caps  and  sweetmeats,  do  not  forget  Gregoire, 
who  is  wretched.  Above  all,  give  him  your 
sweetest  smiles. 

You  go  away  well  pleased  with  yourselves 
because  you  have  been  generous  to  Auger. 
But  there  is  no  merit  in  being  kind  to  Auger. 
With  a  single  story,  a  single  clasp  of  his  hand, 
he  gives  you  much  more  than  he  received  from 
you.  He  gives  you  confidence;  he  restores 
your  peace  of  mind. 

Go  and  see  Gregoire  who  has  nothing  but  his 
suffering  to  give,  and  who  very  nearly  gave 
his  life. 

If  you  go  away  without  a  smile  for  Gregoire, 
you  may  fear  that  you  have  not  fulfilled  your 
task.  And  don't  expect  him  to  return  your 
smile,  for  where  would  your  liberality  be  in 
that  case? 

It  is  easy  to  pity  Auger,  who  needs  no  pity. 
It  is  difficult  to  pity  Gregoire,  and  yet  he  is  so 
pitiable. 

Do  not  forget;  Auger  Is  touched  with  grace; 
but  Gregoire  will  be  damned  if  you  do  not  hold 
out  your  hand  to  him. 

God  Himself,  who  has  withheld  grace  from 
the  damned,  must  feel  pity  for  them. 


184       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

It  Is  a  very  artless  desire  for  equality  which 
makes  us  say  that  all  men  are  equal  in  the 
presence  of  suffering.  No !  no !  they  are  not. 
And  as  we  know  nothing  of  Death  but  that 
which  precedes  and  determines  it,  men  are  not 
even  equal  in  the  presence  of  Death. 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS 


ONE  more  glance  Into  the  dark  ward, 
in  which  something  begins  to  reign 
which  is  not  sleep,  but  merely  a  kind 
of  nocturnal  stupor. 

The  billiard-table  has  been  pushed  into  a 
corner;  it  is  loaded  with  an  incoherent  mass 
of  linen,  bottles,  and  articles  of  furniture.  A 
smell  of  soup  and  excrements  circulates  be- 
tween the  stretchers,  and  seems  to  insult  the 
slender  onjrx  vases  that  surmount  the  cab- 
inet. 

And  now,  quickly!  quickly!  Let  us  escape 
on  tiptoe  into  the  open  air. 

The  night  is  clear  and  cold,  without  a  breath 
of  wind:  a  vast  block  of  transparent  Ice 
between  the  snow  and  the  stars.  Will  it 
suffice  to  cleanse  throat  and  lungs,  nauseated 
by  the  close  effluvium  of  suppurating  wounds? 

The  snow  clings  and  balls  under  our  sabots. 
How  good  it  would  be  to  have  a  game.  .  .  . 

185 


186       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

But  we  are  overwhelmed  by  a  fatigue  that 
has  become  a  kind  of  exasperation.  We  will 
go  to  the  end  of  the  lawn. 

Here  Is  the  great  trench  In  which  the  refuse 
of  the  dressing-ward,  all  the  residuum  of 
infection,  steams  and  rots.  Further  on  we 
come  to  the  musical  pines,  which  Dalcour  the 
miner  visits  every  night,  lantern  in  hand, 
to  catch  sparrows,  Dalcour,  the  formidable 
Zouave,  whom  no  one  can  persuade  not  to 
carry  about  his  stiff  leg  and  the  gaping  wound 
in  his  bandaged  skull  in  the  rain. 

Let  us  go  as  far  as  the  wall  of  the  graveyard, 
v/hich  time  has  caused  to  swell  like  a  protu- 
berance on  the  side  of  the  park,  and  which  is 
so  providentially  close  at  hand. 

The  old  Chateau  looms,  a  stately  mass, 
through  the  shadows.  To-night,  lamps  are 
gleaming  softly  In  every  window.  It  looks 
like  a  silent.  Illuminated  ship,  the  prow  of 
which  Is  cutting  through  an  ice-bank.  Noth- 
ing emerges  from  It  but  this  quiet  hght.  Noth- 
ing reveals  the  nature  of  its  terrible  freight. 

We  know  that  in  every  room,  in  every 
storey,  on  the  level  of  every  floor,  young 
mutilated  bodies  are  ranged  side  by  side.     A 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  187 

hundred  hearts  send  the  over-heated  blood  in 
swift  pulsations  towards  the  suffering  limbs. 
Through  all  these  bodies  the  projectile  in  its 
furious  course  made  its  way,  crushing  deli- 
cate mechanisms,  rending  the  precious  organs 
which  make  us  take  pleasure  in  walking,  breath- 
ing, drinking.   .  .  . 

Up  there,  this  innocent  joy  of  order  no 
longer  exists;  and  in  order  to  recapture  it,  a 
hundred  bodies  are  performing  labours  so 
slow  and  hard  that  they  call  forth  tears  and 
sighs  from  the  strongest. 

But  how  the  murmurs  of  this  centre  of 
suffering  are  muffled  by  the  walls!  How  si- 
lently and  darkly  it  broods  in  space ! 

Like  a  dressing  on  a  large  inflamed  wound, 
the  Chateau  covers  its  contents  closely,  and  one 
sees  nothing  but  these  lamps,  just  such  lamps 
as  might  illuminate  a  studious  solitude,  or  a 
conversation  between  intimate  friends  at  eve- 
ning, or  a  love  lost  in  self-contemplation. 

We  are  now  walking  through  thickets  of 
spindle-wood,  resplendent  under  the  snow,  and 
the  indifference  of  these  living  things  to  the 
monstrous  misery  round  them  makes  the 
impotent    soul    that    is    strangling    me    seem 


188        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

odious  and  even  ridiculous  to  me.  In  spite 
of  all  protestations  of  sympathy,  the  mortal 
must  always  suffer  alone  in  his  flesh,  and  this 
indeed  is  why  war  is  possible.  .  .  . 

Philippe  here  thinks  perhaps  as  I  do;  but 
he  and  I  have  these  thoughts  thrust  on  us  in  the 
same  pressing  fashion.  Men  who  are  sleeping 
twenty  paces  from  this  spot  would  be  wakened 
by  a  cry;  yet  they  are  undisturbed  by  this  for- 
midable presence,  inarticulate  as  a  mollusc  in 
the  depths  of  the  sea. 

In  despair,  I  stamp  on  the  soft  snow  with 
my  sabot.  The  winter  grass  it  covers  subsists 
obstinately,  and  has  no  solidarity  with  any- 
thing else  on  earth.  Let  the  pain  of  man 
wear  Itself  out;  the  grass  will  not  wither. 
Sleep,  good  folks  of  the  whole  world.  Those 
who  suffer  here  will  not  disturb  your  rest. 

And  suddenly,  beyond  the  woods  a  rocket 
rises  and  bursts  against  the  sky,  brilliant  as  a 
meteor.  It  means  something  most  certainly, 
and  it  warns  some  one;  but  Its  coarse  in- 
genuity does  not  deceive  me.  No  barbarous 
signal  such  as  this  could  give  me  back  con- 
fidence In  my  soul  to-night. 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  189 


II 

The  little  room  adjoining  the  closet  where 
I  sleep  has  been  set  apart  for  those  whose 
cries  or  effluvia  make  them  Intolerable  to  the 
rest.  As  It  Is  small  and  encumbered,  it  will 
only  admit  a  single  stretcher,  and  men  are 
brought  In  there  to  die  In  turn. 

But  lately,  when  the  Chateau  was  reigning 
gracefully  In  the  midst  of  verdure,  the  centre 
of  the  great  star  of  alleys  piercing  Its  groves 
of  limes  and  beeches,  its  owners  occasionally 
entertained  a  brilliant  society;  and  if  they 
had  under  their  roof  some  gay  and  lovely  milk- 
white  maiden,  they  gave  her  this  little  room  at 
the  summit  of  the  right  wing,  whence  the  sun 
may  be  seen  rising  above  the  forests,  to  dream, 
and  sleep,  and  adorn  herself  In. 

To-day,  the  fagade  of  the  Chateau  seems  to 
be  listening,  strained  and  anxious,  to  the 
cannonade;  and  the  little  room  has  become  a 
death-chamber. 

Madelan  was  the  first  we  put  there.  He 
was  raving  in  such  a  brutal  and  disturbing 
manner,  in  spite  of  the  Immobility  of  his  long, 


190       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

paralysed  limbs,  that  his  companions  implored 
us  to  remove  him.  I  think  Madelan  neither 
understood  nor  noticed  this  isolation,  for  he 
was  already  given  over  to  a  deeper  solitude; 
but  his  incessant  vociferation,  after  he  was 
deprived  of  listeners,  took  on  a  strange  and 
terrible  character. 

For  four  days  and  four  nights,  he  never 
ceased  talking  vehemently;  and  listening  to 
him,  one  began  to  think  that  all  the  life  of  the 
big  body  that  was  already  dead,  had  fled  in 
frenzy  to  his  throat.  For  four  nights  I  heard 
him  shouting  incoherent,  elusive  things,  which 
seemed  to  be  replies  to  some  mysterious  in- 
terlocutor. 

At  dawn,  and  from  hour  to  hour  throughout 
the  day,  I  went  to  see  him  where  he  sprawled 
on  a  paillasse  on  the  floor,  like  some  red-haired 
stricken  beast,  with  out-stretched  limbs,  con- 
vulsed by  spasms  which  displaced  the  dirty 
blanket  that  covered  him. 

)     He  lost  flesh  with  such  incredible  rapidity 

/that   he    seemed    to    be    evaporating    through 

I  the  gaping  wound  in  the  nape  of  his  neck. 

Then  I  would  speak  to  him,  saying  things 

that    were    kindly    meant    but    futile,    because 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  191 

conversation  Is  Impossible  between  a  man  who 
Is  being  whirled  along  by  the  waters  of  a 
torrent,  and  one  who  Is  seated  among  the 
rushes  on  the  bank.  Madelan  did  not  listen 
to  me,  and  he  continued  his  strange  colloquy 
with  the  other.  He  did  not  want  us  or  any 
one  else;  he  had  ceased  to  eat  or  to  drink, 
and  relieved  himself  as  he  lay,  asking  neither 
help  nor  tendance. 

One  day,  the  wind  blew  the  door  of  the  room 
to,  and  there  was  no  key  to  open  It.  A  long 
ladder  was  put  up  to  the  window,  and  a  pane 
of  glass  was  broken  to  effect  an  entrance. 
Directly  this  was  done,  Madelan  was  heard, 
continuing  his  dream  aloud. 

He  died,  and  was  at  once  replaced  by  the 
man  with  his  skull  battered  In,  of  w^hom  we 
knew  nothing,  because  when  he  came  to  us 
he  could  neither  see  nor  speak,  and  had 
nothing  by  way  of  history  but  a  red  and 
white  ticket,  as  large  as  the  palm  of  a  child's 
hand. 

This  man  spent  only  one  night  In  the  room, 
filling  the  silence  with  painful  eructations,  and 
thumping  on  the  partition  which  separated 
him  from  my  bed. 


192        THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Listening  alertly,  with  the  cold  air  from  the 
open  window  blowing  on  my  face,  I  heard  in 
turn  the  crowing  of  the  cocks  in  the  village, 
the  irregular  breathing  of  Philippe,  sleeping 
the  sleep  of  exhaustion  not  far  from  me,  and 
the  blows  and  the  death-rattle  of  the  man  who 
took  so  long  to  die.  He  became  silent,  how- 
ever, in  the  morning,  when  the  wind  began  to 
}  drop,  and  the  first  detonation  of  the  day 
boomed  through  the  vault-like  quiet  of  the 
darkness. 

Then  we  had  as  our  neighbour  the  hospital 
orderly,  Sergeant  Gidel,  who  was  nearing  his 
end,  and  whose  cruel  hiccough  we  had  been 
unable  to  alleviate  for  a  week  past.  This  man 
knew  his  business,  he  knew  the  meaning  of 
probe,  of  fever,  of  hardened  abdomen.  He 
knew  too  that  he  had  a  bullet  in  the  spinal 
cord.  He  never  asked  us  for  anything,  and 
as  we  dared  not  tell  him  lies,  we  were  overcome 
by  a  kind  of  shame  in  his  presence.  He 
stayed  barely  two  days  in  the  room,  looking 
with  dim  eyes  at  the  engravings  on  the  walls, 
and  the  Empire  bureau  on  which  vases  were 
piled. 

But  what  need  Is  there  to  tell  of  all  those 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  193 

whom  this  unhappy  room  swallowed  up  and 
ejected? 

Ill 

We  have  no  lights  this  evening.  .  .  .  We 
must  learn  to  do  without  them.  ...  I  grope 
my  way  along  the  passages,  where  the  wind  is 
muttering,  to  the  great  staircase.  Here  there 
Is  a  fitful  lamp  which  makes  one  prefer  the 
darkness.  I  see  the  steps,  which  are  white 
and  smeared  with  mud,  pictures  and  tapestries, 
a  sumptuous  scheme  of  decoration  flooded  at 
the  bottom  by  filth  and  desolation.  As  I 
approach  the  room  where  the  wounded  are 
lying,  I  hear  the  calm  sound  of  their  conversa- 
tion. I  go  In  quietly.  They  cease  talking; 
then  they  begin  to  chat  again,  for  now  they 
know  me. 

At  first  one  can  only  distinguish  long  forms 
ranged  upon  the  ground.  The  stretchers  seem 
to  be  holding  forth  with  human  voices.  One 
of  these  is  narrating: 

''We  were  all  three  sitting  side  by  side  .  .  . 
though  I  had  told  the  adjutant  that  corner 
was  not  a  good  place.  .  .  .  They  had  just 
brought  us  a  ration  of  soup  with  a  little  bit  of 


194       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

meat  that  was  all  covered  with  white  frost. 
Then  bullets  began  to  arrive  by  the  dozen,  and 
we  avoided  them  as  well  as  we  could,  and 
the  earth  flew  about,  and  we  were  laughing, 
because  we  had  an  idea  that  among  all  those 
bullets  there  was  not  one  that  would  find  Its 
billet.  And  then  they  stopped  firing,  and  we 
came  back  to  sit  on  the  ledge.  There  were 
Chagnlol  and  Due  and  I,  and  I  had  them  both 
to  the  right  of  me.  We  began  to  talk  about 
GIromagny,  and  about  Danjoutln,  because 
that's  the  district  we  all  came  from,  and  this 
went  on  for  about  half  an  hour.  And  then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  a  bullet  came,  just  a  single  one, 
but  this  time  It  was  a  good  one.  It  went 
through  Chagnlol's  head,  then  through  Due's, 
and  as  I  was  a  little  taller  than  they.  It  only 
passed  through  my  neck.  .  .  ." 

"And   then?" 

*'Then  It  went  off  to  the  devil!  Chagnlol 
fell  forward  on  his  face.  Due  got  up,  and  ran 
along  on  all  fours  as  far  as  the  bend  In  the 
trench,  and  there  he  began  to  scratch  out  the 
earth  like  a  rabbit,  and  then  he  died.  The 
blood  was  pouring  down  me  right  and  left, 
and  I  thought  It  was  time  for  me  to  go.     I  set 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  195 

off  running,  holding  a  finger  to  each  side  of 
my  neck,  because  of  the  blood.  I  was  think- 
ing: just  a  single  bullet!  It's  too  much! 
It  was  really  a  mighty  good  one !  And  then 
I  saw  the  adjutant.  So  I  said  to  him:  'I 
warned  you,  mon  adjutant^  that  that  corner 
was  not  a  good  place!'  But  the  blood  rushed 
up  into  my  mouth,  and  I  began  to  run  again." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  I  heard  a  voice 
murmur  with  conviction: 

^'You  were  jolly  lucky,  weren't  you?" 

Mulct,  too,  tells  his  story: 

*'They  had  taken  our  fire  .  .  .  ^That's  not 
your  fire,'  I  said  to  him.  'Not  our  fire?'  he 
said.  Then  the  other  came  up  and  he  said: 
'Hold  your  jaw  about  the  fire  .  .  .'  'It's  not 
yours,'  I  said.  Then  he  said:  'You  don't  know 
who  you're  talking  to.'  And  he  turned  his 
cap,  which  had  been  inside  out  .  .  .  'Ah !  I 
beg  your  pardon,'  I  said,  'but  I  could  not 
tell  .  .  .'    And  so  they  kept  our  fire.  .  .  ." 

MavIUe  remarks  calmly:  "Yes,  things  like 
that  will  happen  sometimes." 

Silence  again.  The  tempest  shakes  the 
windows  with  a  furious  hand.  The  room  is 
faintly  illuminated  by  a  candle  which  has  St. 


196       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Vitus'  dance.  Rousselot,  our  little  orderly, 
knits  away  industriously  in  the  circle  of  light. 
I  smoke  a  pipe  at  once  acrid  and  consoling, 
like  this  minute  itself  in  the  midst  of  the 
infernal  adventure. 

Before  going  away,  I  think  of  Croquelet, 
the  silent,  whose  long  silhouette  I  see  at  the 
end  of  the  room.  "He  sleeps  all  the  time," 
says  Mulet,  *'he  sleeps  all  day."  I  approach 
the  stretcher,  I  bend  over  it,  and  I  see  two 
large  open  eyes,  which  look  at  me  gravely  and 
steadily  in  the  gloom.  And  this  look  is  so 
sad,  so  poignant,  that  I  am  filled  with  im- 
potent distress. 

"You  sleep  too  much,  my  poor  Croquelet." 
He  answers  me  with  his  rugged  accent,  but 
in  a  feeble  voice : 

"Don't  listen  to  him;  it's  not  true.  You 
know  quite  well  that  I  can't  sleep,  and  that 
you  won't  give  me  a  draught  to  let  me  get  a 
real  nap.  This  afternoon,  I  read  a  little.  .  .  . 
But  it  wasn't  very  interesting.  ...  If  I  could 
have  another  book.  .  .  ." 

"Show  me  your  book,  Croquelet." 
He  thrusts  out  his  chin  towards  a  little  tract. 
I   strike   a   match,    and   I    read   on  the   grey 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  197 

cover:  *'0f  the  Quality  of  Prayers  addressed 
to  God." 

"All  right,  Croquelet,  I'll  try  to  get  you  a 
book  with  pictures  in  it.  How  do  you  feel 
this  evening?" 

**AhI    bad!    very   bad!      They're    thawing 


now.  .  .  ." 


He  has  had  frost-bite  In  his  feet,  and  Is  be- 
ginning to  suffer  so  much  from  them  that  he 
forgets  the  wound  in  his  side,  which  is  mortal, 
but  less  active. 

IV 

I  have  come  to  take  refuge  among  my 
wounded  to  smoke  In  peace,  and  meditate  In 
the  shadow.  Here,  the  moral  atmosphere  Is 
pure.  These  men  are  so  wretched,  so  utterly 
humiliated,  so  absorbed  In  their  relentless  suf- 
ferings that  they  seem  to  have  relinquished 
the  burden  of  the  passions  In  order  to  con- 
centrate their  powers  on  the  one  endeavour: 
to  live. 

In  spite  of  their  solidarity  they  are  for  the 
time  Isolated  by  their  Individual  sufferings. 
Later  on,  they  will  communicate;  but  this  Is 
the  moment  when  each  one  contemplates  his 


198       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

own  anguish,  and  fights  his  own  battle,  with 
cries  of  pain.  .  .  . 

They  are  all  my  friends.  I  will  stay  among 
them,  associating  myself  with  all  my  soul  in 
their  ordeal. 

Perhaps  here  I  shall  find  peace.  Perhaps 
all  ignoble  discord  will  call  a  truce  on  the 
threshold  of   this   empire. 

But  a  short  distance  from  us  the  battle-field 
has  thundered  unceasingly  for  days.  Like  a 
noisy,  complicated  mechanism  which  turns  out 
the  products  of  its  internal  activity,  the  stu- 
pid machine  of  war  throws  out,  from  min- 
ute to  minute,  bleeding  men.  We  pick  them 
up,  and  here  they  are,  swathed  in  bandages. 
They  have  been  cpjshed  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye;  and  now  we  shall  have  to  ask 
months  and  years  to  repair  or  palliate  the 
damage. 

How  silent  they  are  this  evening!  And 
how  it  makes  one's  heart  ache  to  look  at  them! 
Here  is  Bourreau,  with  the  brutal  name  and 
the  gentle  nature,  who  never  utters  a  complaint, 
and  whom  a  single  bullet  has  deprived  of 
sight  for  ever.  Here  is  Bride,  whom  we  fear 
to  touch,  so  covered  is  he  with  bandages,  but 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  199 

who  looks  at  us  with  touching,  liquid  eyes, 
his  mind  already  wandering.  Here  is  Lerouet, 
who  will  not  see  next  morning  dawn  over  the 
pine-trees,  and  who  has  a  gangrened  wound 
near  his  heart.  And  the  others,  all  of  whom  I 
know  by  their  individual  misfortunes. 

How  difficult  it  Is  to  realise  what  they  were, 
all  these  men  who  a  year  ago,  were  walking 
in  streets,  tilling  the  land,  or  writing  in  an 
office.  Their  present  is  too  poignant.  Here 
they  lie  on  the  ground,  like  some  fair  work  of 
art  defaced.  Behold  them!  The  creature 
par  excellence  has  received  a  great  outrage, 
an  outrage  it  has  wrought  upon  Itself. 

We  are  Ignorant  of  their  past.  But  have 
they  a  future?  I  consider  these  Innocent 
victims  in  the  tragic  majesty  of  the  hour,  and 
I  feel  ashamed  of  living  and  breathing  freely 
among  them. 

Poor,  poor  brothers !  What  could  one  do 
for  you  which  would  not  be  Insufficient,  un- 
worthy, mediocre?  We  can  at  least  give  up 
everything  and  devote  ourselves  heart  and 
soul  to  our  holy  and  exacting  work. 

But  no!  round  the  beds  on  which  your 
solitary  drama  is  enacted,  men  are  still  taking 


,  200      THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

I  part   In   a    sinister   comedy.      Every   kind    of 
1  folly,    the    most   ignoble    and    also    the    most 
imbecile  passions,  pursue  their  enterprises  and 
their  satisfactions  over  your  heads. 

Neither  the  four  corpses  we  buried  this 
morning,  nor  your  daily  agonies  will  disarm 
these  appetites,  suspend  these  calculations,  and 
destroy  these  ambitions  the  development  and 
fruition  of  which  even  your  martyrdom  may 
be  made  to  serve. 


I 


I  will  spend  the  whole  evening  among  my 
wounded,  and  we  will  talk  together,  gently, 
of  their  misery;  it  will  please  them,  and  they 
will  make  me  forget  the  horrible  atmosphere 
of  discussion  that  reigns  here. 

Alas!  during  the  outburst  of  the  great  ca- 
tastrophe, seeing  the  volume  of  blood  and 
fire,  listening  to  the  uproar,  smelling  the 
stench  of  the  vast  gangrene,  we  thought  that 
all  passions  would  be  laid  aside,  like  cumber- 
some weapons,  and  that  we  should  give  our- 
selves up  with  clean  hearts  and  empty  hands 
to  battle  against  the  fiery  nightmare.  He  who 
fights  and  defends  himself  needs  a  pure  heart: 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  201 

SO  does  he  who  wanders  among  charnel 
houses,  gives  drink  to  parched  lips,  washes 
fevered  faces  and  bathes  wounds.  We 
thought  there  would  be  a  great  forgetfulness 
of  self  and  of  former  hopes,  and  of  the  whole 
world.  O  Union  of  pure  hearts  to  meet  the 
ordeal ! 

But  no!  The  first  explosion  was  tre- 
mendous, yet  hardly  had  Its  echoes  died  away 
when  the  rag-pickers  were  already  at  work 
among  the  ruins,  in  quest  of  cutlet-bones  and 
waste  paper. 

And  yet,  think  of  the  sacred  anguish  of 
those  first  hours! 


Well,  so  be  it!  For  my  part,  I  will  stay 
here,  between  these  stretchers  with  their  bur- 
dens of  anguish. 

At    this    hour    one    Is    Inclined    to    distrust^, 
everything,    man    and    the    universe,    and    the 
future   of   Right.      But  we   cannot  have   any 
doubts  as  to  the  suffering  of  man.     It  is  the 
one  certain  thing  at  this  moment. 

So  I  will  stay  and  drink  In  this  sinister 
testimony.      And   each   time    that    Beal,    who 


202   THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

has  a  gaping  wound  in  the  stomach,  holds  out 
his  hands  to  me  with  a  little  smile,  I  will  get 
up  and  hold  his  hands  in  mine,  for  he  is 
feverish,  and  he  knows  that  my  hands  are 
always  icy. 

V 

Bride  is  dead.  We  had  been  working  all 
day,  and  in  the  evening  we  had  to  find  time  to 
go  and  bury  Bride. 

It  is  not  a  very  long  ceremony.  The 
burial-ground  is  near.  About  a  dozen  of  us 
follow  the  lantern,  slipping  in  the  mud,  and 
stumbling  over  the  graves.  Here  we  are  at 
the  wall,  and  here  is  the  long  ditch,  always 
open,  which  every  day  is  prolonged  a  little  to 
the  right,  and  filled  in  a  little  to  the  left.  Here 
is  the  line  of  white  crosses,  and  the  flickering 
shadows  on  the  wall  caused  by  the  lantern. 

The  men  arrange  the  planks,  slip  the  ropes, 
and  lower  the  body,  disputing  in  undertones, 
for  It  Is  not  so  easy  as  one  might  think  to  be 
a  grave-digger.  One  must  have  the  knack  of 
it.  And  the  night  is  very  dark  and  the  mud 
very  sticky. 

At  last  the  body  is  at  the  bottom  of  the 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  203 

trench,  and  the  muddy  ropes  are  withdrawn. 
The  little  consumptive  priest  who  stands  at 
the  graveside  murmurs  the  prayer  for  the 
dead.  The  rain  beats  in  our  faces.  The 
familiar  demon  of  Artois,  the  wind,  leaps 
among  the  ancient  trees.  The  little  priest 
murmurs  the   terrible  words:  Dies  irae,  dies 

ll'l'Cva        •        •        • 

And  this  present  day  is  surely  the  day  of 
wrath  ...  I  too  utter  my  prayer:  "In  the 
name  of  the  unhappy  world.  Bride,  I  remit  all 
thy  sins,  I  absolve  thee  from  all  thy  faults! 
Let  this  day,  at  least,  be  a  day  of  rest." 

The  little  priest  stands  bare-headed  In  the 
blast.  An  orderly  who  is  an  ecclesiastic  holds 
the  end  of  an  apron  over  his  head.  A  man 
raises  the  lantern  to  the  level  of  his  eye.  And 
the  rain-drops  gleam  and  sparkle  furtively. 

Bride  Is  dead.  .  .  . 

Now  we  meet  again  in  the  little  room  where 
friendship  reigns. 

Pierre  and  Jacques,  gallant  fellows,  I  shall 
not  forget  your  beautiful,  painful  smile  at  the 
moment  which  brings  discouragement  to  the 
experienced  man.     I  shall  not  forget. 

The  beef  and  rice,  which  one  needs  to  be 


204.       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

very  hungry  to  swallow,  is  distributed.  And  a 
gentle  cheerfulness  blossoms  In  the  circle  of 
lamplight,  a  cheerfulness  which  tries  to  catch 
something  of  the  gaiety  of  the  past.  Man  has 
such  a  deep-seated  need  of  joy  that  he  im- 
provises It  everywhere,  even  In  the  heart  of 
misery. 

And  suddenly,  through  the  steam  of  the 
soup,  I  see  Bride's  look  distinctly. 

It  was  no  ordinary  look.  The  extremity  of 
suffering,  the  approach  of  death,  perhaps,  and 
also  the  hidden  riches  of  his  soul,  gave  it 
extraordinary  light,  sweetness,  and  gentleness. 
When  one  came  to  his  bedside,  and  bent  over 
him,  the  look  was  there,  a  well-spring  of  re- 
freshment. 

But  Bride  Is  dead:  we  saw  his  eyes  trans- 
formed Into  dull,  meaningless  membranes. 

Where  Is  that  well-spring?  Can  it  be 
quenched? 

Bride  Is  dead.  Involuntarily,  I  repeat 
aloud:     "Bride  is  dead." 

Have  I  roused  a  responsive  echo  In  these 
sympathetic  souls?  A  religious  silence  falls 
upon  them.  The  oldest  of  all  problems  comes 
and  takes  its  place  at  the  table  like  a  familiar 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  205 

guest.  It  breathes  mysteriously  Into  every 
ear:  "Where  Is  Bride?  Where  is  Bride's 
look?" 

VI 

A  lantern  advances,  swinging  among  the 
pines.     Who  is  coming  to  meet  us? 

Philippe  recognises  the  figure  of  Monsieur 
Julien.  Here  is  the  man,  indeed,  with  his 
porter's  livery,  and  his  base  air  as  of  an 
insolent  slave.  He  waves  a  stable-lantern 
which  throws  grotesque  shadows  upwards  on 
his  face;  and  he  is  obviously  furious  at  having 
been  forced  to  render  a  service. 

He  brandishes  the  lantern  angrily,  and 
thrusts  out  his  chin  to  show  us  the  advancing 
figures:  two  men  are  carrying  a  stretcher  on 
which  lies  a  big  body  wrapped  in  a  coarse 
winding  sheet.  The  two  men  are  weary,  and 
set  the  stretcher  down  carefully  in  the  mud. 

*'IsItFumat?" 

*'Yes.    He  has  just  died,  very  peacefully." 

*^Where  are  you  going?" 

"There  Is  no  place  anywhere  for  a  corpse. 
So  we  are  taking  him  to  the  chapel  in  the 
burial-ground.     But  he  Is  heavy." 


206       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

*'We  will  give  you  a  hand." 

Philippe  and  I  take  hold  of  the  stretcher. 
The  men  follow  us  In  silence.  The  body  is 
heavy,  very  heavy.  We  drag  our  sabots  out 
of  the  clay  laboriously.  And  we  walk  slowly, 
breathing  hard. 

How  heavy  he  Is!  .  .  .  He  was  called 
Fumat  .  .  .  He  was  a  giant.  He  came  from 
the  mountains  of  the  Centre,  leaving  a  red- 
tiled  village  on  a  hill-side,  among  juniper- 
bushes  and  volcanic  boulders.  He  left  his 
native  place  with  Its  violet  peaks  and  strong 
aromatic  scents  and  came  to  the  war  In  Artois. 
He  was  past  the  age  when  men  can  march  to 
the  attack,  but  he  guarded  the  trenches  and 
cooked.  He  received  his  death-wound  while 
he  was  cooking.  The  giant  of  Auvergne  was 
peppered  with  small  missiles.  He  had  no 
wound  at  all  proportionate  to  his  huge  body. 
Nothing  but  splinters  of  metal.  Once  again, 
David  has  slain  Goliath. 

He  was  two  days  dying.  He  was  asked: 
"Is  there  anything  you  would  like?"  And 
he  answered  with  white  lips:  "Nothing, 
thank  you."  When  we  were  anxious  and 
asked    him    "How    do    you    feel?"    he    was 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  207 

always  quite  satisfied.  "I  am  getting  on  very 
well."  He  died  with  a  discretion,  a  modesty, 
a  self-forgetfulness  which  redeemed  the  ego- 
tism of  the  universe. 

How  heavy  he  is!  He  was  wounded  as  he 
was  blowing  up  the  fire  for  the  soup.  He  did 
not  die  fighting.  He  uttered  no  historic  word. 
He  fell  at  his  post  as  a  cook.  .  .  .  He  was 
not  a  hero. 

You  are  not  a  hero,  Fumat.  You  are  only  a 
martyr.  And  we  are  going  to  lay  you  in  the 
earth  of  France,  which  has  engulfed  a  noble 
and  innumerable  army  of  martyrs. 

The  shadow  of  the  trees  sweeps  like  a  huge 
sickle  across  space.  An  acrid  smell  of  cold 
decay  rises  on  the  night.  The  wind  wails  its 
threnody  for  Fumat. 

*'Open  the  door,  Monsieur  Julien." 

The  lout  pushes  the  door,  grumbling  to 
himself.  We  lay  the  body  on  the  pavement  of 
the  chapel. 

Renaud  covers  the  corpse  carefully  with  a 
faded  flag.  And  suddenly,  as  if  to  celebrate 
the  moment,  the  brutal  roar  of  guns  comes  to 
us  from  the  depths  of  the  woods,  breaks 
violently   Into   the    chapel,    seizes    and   rattles 


I 


208       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

the  trembling  window-panes.  A  hundred 
times  over,  a  whole  nation  of  cannon  yells  in 
honour  of  Fumat.  And  each  time  other 
Fumats  fall  in  the  mud  yonder,  in  their 
appointed  places. 

VII 

They  ought  not  to  have  cut  off  all  the  light 
in  this  manner,  and  it  would  not  have  been 
done,  perhaps,  if  .  .  . 

There  is  a  kind  of  mania  for  organisation 
which  is  the  sworn  enemy  of  order;  in  its 
efforts  to  discover  the  best  place  for  every- 
thing, it  ends  by  diverting  everything  from  its 
right  function  and  locality,  and  making  every- 
thing as  inopportune  as  Itself.  It  was  a 
mistake  to  cut  off  all  the  lights  this  evening, 
on  some  pretext  or  the  other.  The  rooms  of 
the  old  mansion  are  not  packed  with  bales 
of  cotton,  but  with  men  who  have  anxious 
minds  and  tortured  bodies. 

A  mournful  darkness  suddenly  reigned; 
and  outside,  the  incessant  storm  that  rages  in 
this  country  swept  along  like  a  river  in  spate. 

Little   Rochet  was  dreaming  in  the   liquid 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  209 

light  of  the  lamp,  with  hands  crossed  on  his 
breast,  and  the  delicate  profile  of  an  exhausted 
saint. 

He  was  dreaming  of  vague  and  exquisite 
things,  for  cruel  fever  has  moments  of  gene- 
rosity between  two  nightmares.  He  was 
dreaming  so  sweetly  that  he  forgot  the  abomin- 
able stench  of  his  body,  and  that  a  smile 
touched  the  two  deep  wrinkles  at  the  corners 
of  his  mouth,  set  there  by  a  week  of  agony. 

But  all  the  lamps  have  been  put  out, 
and  the  noise  of  the  hurricane  has  become 
more  insistent,  and  the  wounded  have  ceased 
talking,  for  darkness  discourages  conversa- 
tion. 

There  are  some  places  where  the  men  with 
whom  the  shells  have  dealt  mercifully  and 
whose  wounds  are  only  scratches  congregate. 
These  have  only  the  honour  of  wounds,  and 
what  may  be  called  their  delights.  .  .  .  But 
here,  we  have  only  the  worst  cases;  and  here 
they  have  to  await  the  supreme  decision  of 
death. 

Little  Rochet  awoke  to  a  reality  full  of 
darkness  and  despair.  He  heard  nothing  but 
laboured    breathing    round    him,    and    rising 


210       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

above  it  all,  the  violent  breath  of  the  storm. 
He  was  suddenly  conscious  of  his  lacerated 
stomach,  of  his  lost  leg,  and  he  realised  that 
the  fetid  smell  in  the  air  was  the  smell  of  his 
flesh.  And  he  thought  of  the  loving  letter  he 
had  received  in  the  morning  from  his  four  big 
sisters  with  glossy  hair,  he  thought  of  all  his 
lost,  ravished  happiness.  .  .  . 

Renaud  hurries  up,  groping  his  way  among 
the  dark  ambushes  of  the  corridor. 

"Come,  come  quickly.  Little  Rochet  has 
thrown  himself  out  of  bed." 

Holding  up  a  candle,  I  take  In  the  melan- 
choly scene.  We  have  to  get  Rochet  into  bed 
again,  readjust  his  bandages,  wipe  up  the 
fetid  liquid  spilt  on  the  floor. 

Rochet's  lips  are  compressed.  I  stoop  to 
his  ear  and  ask  softly: 

"Why  did  you  do  this?" 

His  face  remains  calm,  and  he  answers 
gently,  looking  me  full  in  the  eyes:  "I  want 
to  die." 

I  leave  the  room,  disarmed,  my  head  bowed, 
and  go  in  search  of  Monet,  who  is  a  priest  and 
an  excellent  orderly.  He  is  smoking  a  pipe 
in  a  corner.     He  has  just  had  news  that  his 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  211 

young  brother  has  been  killed  in  action,  and 
he  had  snatched  a  few  minutes  of  solitude. 

"Monet,"  I  say,  ''I  think  Rochet  is  a  be- 
liever.    Well,  go  to  him.     He  may  want  you." 

Monet  puts  away  his  pipe,  and  goes  off 
noiselessly. 

As  to  me,  I  go  and  wander  about  outside. 
On  the  poplar-lined  road,  in  company  with  the 
furious  rain  and  the  darkness,  I  shall  perhaps 
be  able  to  master  the  flood  of  bitterness  that 
sweeps  over  me. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  my  anxiety  brings  me 
back  to  Rochet's  bedside.  The  candle  is 
burning  away  with  a  steady  flame.  Monet  is 
reading  in  a  little  book  with  a  clasp.  The 
profile  of  the  wounded  man  has  still  the  pitiful 
austerity  of  a  tortured  saint. 

"Is  he  quieter  now?" 

Monet  lifts  his  fine  dark  eyes  to  my  face, 
and  drops  his  book. 

"Yes.     He  is  dead." 


VIII 

Why  has  Hell  been  painted  as  a  place  of 
hopeless  torture  and  eternal  lamentation? 


212       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

I  believe  that  even  in  the  lowest  depths  of 
Hell,  the  damned  sing,  jest,  and  play  cards. 
I  am  led  to  imagine  this  after  seeing  these  men 
rowing  in  their  galleys,  chained  to  them  by 
fever  and  wounds. 

Blaireau,  who  has  only  lost  a  hand,  preludes 
in  an  undertone: 

Si  tu  veux  fair'  mon  honheur.  .  .  . 

This  timid  breath  kindles  the  dormant 
flame.  Houdebine,  who  has  a  fractured 
knee,  but  who  now  expects  to  be  fairly 
comfortable  till  the  morning,  at  once  responds 
and  continues : 

Marguerite!     Marguerite! 

The  two  sing^  in  unison,  with  delighted 
smiles: 

Si  tu  veux  fair'  mon  honheur 
Marguerite!    Marguerite! 

Maville  joins  in  at  the  second  verse,  and 
even  Legras,  whose  two  legs  are  broken,  and 
the  Chasseur  Alpin,  who  has  a  hole  in  his 
skull. 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  213 

Panchat,  the  man  who  had  a  bullet  through 
his  neck,  beats  time  with  his  finger,  because 
he  is  forbidden  to  speak. 

All  this  goes  on  in  low  tones;  but  faces 
light  up,  and  flush,  as  if  a  bottle  of  brandy  had 
been  passed  round. 

Then  Houdebine  turns  to  Panchat  and 
says:  "Will  you  have  a  game  of  dummy 
manilla,  Panchat?" 

Dummy  manilla  is  a  game  for  two;  and  they 
have  to  be  content  with  games  for  two, 
because  no  one  in  this  ward  can  get  up,  and 
communication  is  only  easy  for  those  in 
adjacent  beds. 

Panchat  makes  a  sign  of  consent.  Why 
should  he  not  play  dummy  manilla,  which  is  a 
silent  game.  A  chair  is  put  between  the  two 
beds,  and  he  shuffles  the  cards. 

The  cards  are  so  worn  at  the  corners  that 
they  have  almost  become  ovals.  The  court 
cards  smile  through  a  fog  of  dirt;  and  to 
deal,  one  has  to  wet  one's  thumb  copiously, 
because  a  thick,  tenacious  grease  makes 
the  cards  stick  together  in  an  evil-smelling 
mass. 

But  a  good  deal  of  amusement  is  still  to  be 


214      THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

got  out  of  these  precious  bits  of  old  paste- 
board. 

Panchat  supports  himself  on  his  elbow, 
Houdebine  has  to  keep  on  his  back,  be- 
cause of  his  knee.  He  holds  his  cards 
against  his  chin,  and  throws  them  down 
energetically  on  the  chair  with  his  right 
hand. 

The  chair  is  rather  far  off,  the  cards  are 
dirty,  and  sometimes  Houdebine  asks  his 
silent  adversary:  *' What's  that?" 

Panchat  takes  the  card  and  holds  it  out  at 
arm's  length. 

Houdebine  laughs  gaily. 

He  plays  his  cards  one  after  the  other,  and 
dummy's  hand  also: 

"Trump!  Trump!  Trump!  And  ace  of 
hearts!" 

Even  those  who  cannot  see  anything  laugh 
too. 

Panchat  is  vexed,  but  he  too  laughs  noise- 
lessly. Then  he  takes  out  the  lost  sou  from 
under  his  straw  pillow. 

Meanwhile,  Mulct  is  telling  a  story.  It  Is 
always  the  same  story,  but  it  is  always  in- 
teresting. 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  215 

An     almost    imperceptible     voice,    perhaps 
Legras',  hums  slowly: 

Si  tu  veux  fair'  mon  bonheur. 


Who  talks  of  happiness  here? 

I  recognise  the  accents  of  obstinate,  gener- 
ous life.  I  recognise  thine  accents,  artless 
flesh !  Only  thou  couldst  dare  to  speak  of  hap- 
piness between  the  pain  of  the  morning  and 
that  of  the  evening,  between  the  man  who  is 
groaning  on  the  right,  and  the  man  who  is 
dying  on  the  left. 

Truly,  in  the  utmost  depths  of  Hell,  the 
damned  must  mistake  their  need  of  joy  for 
joy  itself. 

I  know  quite  well  that  there  is  hope  here. 

So  that  in  hell  too  there  must  be  hope. 


IX 

But  lately.  Death  was  the  cruel  stranger, 
the  stealthy-footed  visitor.  .  .  .  Now,  it  is 
the  romping  dog  of  the  house. 

Do  you  remember  the  days  when  the  human 


216      THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

body  seemed  made  for  joy,  when  each  of  its 
organs  represented  a  function  and  a  delight? 
Now,  each  part  of  the  body  evokes  the  evil 
that  threatens  it,  and  the  special  suffering  it 
engenders. 

Apart  from  this,  it  is  well  adapted  for  its 
part  in  the  laborious  drama:  the  foot  to  carry 
a  man  to  the  attack;  the  arm  to  work  the 
cannon;  the  eye  to  watch  the  adversary  or 
adjust  the  weapon. 

But  lately,  Death  was  no  part  of  life.  We 
talked  of  it  covertly.  Its  image  was  at  once 
painful  and  indecent,  calculated  to  upset  the 
plans  and  projects  of  existence.  It  worked 
as  far  as  possible  in  obscurity,  silence  and 
retirement.  We  disguised  it  with  symbols; 
we  announced  it  in  laborious  paraphrases, 
marked  by  a  kind  of  shame. 

To-day  Death  is  closely  bound  up  with  the 
things  of  life.  And  this  is  true,  not  so  much 
because  its  daily  operations  are  on  a  vast 
scale,  because  it  chooses  the  youngest  and  the 
healthiest  among  us,  because  it  has  become 
a  kind  of  sacred  institution,  but  more  espe- 
cially because  it  has  become  a  thing  so  ordinary 
that   it   no   longer   causes   us   to    suspend   our 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  217 

usual  activities,  as  it  used  to  do :  we  eat  and 
drink  beside  the  dead,  we  sleep  amidst  the 
dying,  we  laugh  and  sing  in  the  company  of 
corpses. 

And  how,  indeed,  can  it  be  otherwise?  You 
know  quite  well  that  man  cannot  live  without 
eating,  drinking,  and  sleeping,  nor  without 
laughing  and  singing. 

Ask  all  those  who  are  suffering  their  hard 
Calvary  here.  They  are  gentle  and  courage- 
ous, they  sympathise  with  the  pain  of  others; 
but  they  must  eat  when  the  soup  comes 
round,  sleep,  if  they  can,  during  the  long 
night;  and  try  to  laugh  again  when  the  ward 
is  quiet,  and  the  corpse  of  the  morning  has 
been  carried  out. 

Death  remains  a  great  thing,  but  one  with 
which  one's  relations  have  become  frequent  and 
intimate.  Like  the  king  who  shows  himself 
at  his  toilet.  Death  is  still  powerful,  but  it  has 
become  familiar  and  slightly  degraded. 

Lerouet  died  just  now.  We  closed  his  eyes, 
tied  up  his  chin,  then  pulled  out  the  sheet  to 
cover  the  corpse  while  It  was  waiting  for  the 
stretcher-bearers. 

*'Can't  you   eat  anything?"   said   Mulct  to 


218       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Maville.  Maville,  who  is  very  young  and  shy, 
hesitates:  "I  can't  get  it  down.'* 

And  after  a  pause,  he  adds:  "I  can't  bear 
to  see  such  things." 

Mulet  wipes  his  plate  calmly  and  says: 
"Yes,  sometimes  it  used  to  take  away  my 
appetite  too,  so  much  so  that  I  used  to  be 
sick.       But    I    have    got    accustomed    to     it 


now." 


Pouchet  gulps  down  his  coffee  with  a  sort 
of  feverish  eagerness. 

"One  feels  glad  to  get  off  with  the  loss  of  a 
leg  when  one  sees  that." 

"One  must  live,"  adds  Mulet. 

"Well,  for  all  the  pleasure  one  gets  out  of 
life.  ..." 

Beliard  is  the  speaker.  He  had  a  bullet  in 
the  bowel,  yet  we  hope  to  get  him  well  soon. 
But  his  whole  attitude  betrays  indifference. 
He  smokes  a  great  deal,  and  rarely  speaks. 
He  has  no  reason  to  despair,  and  he  knows 
that  he  can  resume  his  ordinary  life.  But 
familiarity  with  Death,  which  sometimes 
makes  life  seem  so  precious,  occasionally  ends 
by  producing  a  distaste  for  it,  or  rather  a  deep 
weariness  of  it. 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  219 


X 

A  whole  nation,  ten  whole  nations  are 
learning  to  live  in  Death's  company.  Hu- 
manity has  entered  the  wild  beast's  cage,  and 
sits  there  with  the  patient  courage  of  the 
lion-tamer. 

Men  of  my  country,  I  learn  to  know  you 
better  every  day,  and  from  having  looked  you 
in  the  face  at  the  height  of  your  sufferings,  I 
have  conceived  a  religious  hope  for  the  future 
of  our  race.  It  is  mainly  owing  to  my  ad- 
miration for  your  resignation,  your  native 
goodness,  your  serene  confidence  in  better 
times  to  come  that  I  can  still  believe  in  the 
moral  future  of  the  world. 

At  the  very  hour  when  the  most  natural 
instinct  inclines  the  world  to  ferocity,  you 
preserve,  on  your  beds  of  suffering,  a  beauty, 
a  purity  of  outlook  which  goes  far  to  atone 
for  the  monstrous  crime.  Men  of  France,  your 
simple  grandeur  of  soul  redeems  humanity 
from  its  greatest  crime,  and  raises  it  from  its 
deep  abyss. 

We  are  told  how  you  bear  the  misery  of  the 


220       THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

battle-field,  how  in  the  discouraging  cold  and 
mud,  you  await  the  hour  of  your  cruel  duty, 
how  you  rush  forward  to  meet  the  mortal 
blow,  through  the  unimaginable  tumult  of 
peril. 

But  when  you  come  here,  there  are  further 
sufferings  in  store  for  you;  and  I  know  with 
what  courage  you  endure  them. 

The  doors  of  the  Chateau  close  on  a  new  life 
for  you,  a  life  that  is  also  one  of  perpetual 
peril  and  contest.  I  help  you  in  this  contest, 
and  I  see  how  gallantly  you  wage  it. 

Not  a  wrinkle  in  your  faces  escapes  me. 
Not  one  of  your  pains,  not  one  of  the  tremors 
of  your  lacerated  flesh.  And  I  write  them  all 
down,  just  as  I  note  your  simple  words,  your 
cries,  your  sighs  of  hope,  as  I  also  note  the 
expression  of  your  faces  at  the  solemn  hour 
when  man  speaks  no  more. 

Not  one  of  your  words  leaves  me  unmoved; 
there  is  not  one  of  your  actions  which  is  not 
i|  worthy  of  record.     All  must  contribute  to  the 
history  of  our  great  ordeal. 

For  it  is  not  enough  to  give  oneself  up  to  the 
sacred  duty  of  succour.  It  is  not  enough  to 
apply  the  beneficent  knife  to  the  wound,   or 


NIGHTS  IN  ARTOIS  221 

to  change  the  dressings  skilfully  and  care- 
fully. 

It  is  also  my  mission  to  record  the  history 
of  those  who  have  been  the  sacrificial  victims 
of  the  race,  without  gloss,  in  all  its  truth  and 
simplicity;  the  history  of  the  men  you  have 
shown  yourselves  to  be  in  suffering. 

If  I  left  this  undone,  you  would,  no  doubt, 
be  cured  as  perfectly,  or  would  perish  none 
the  less;  but  the  essence  of  the  majestic  lesson 
would  be  lost,  the  most  splendid  elements  of 
your  courage  would  remain  barren. 

And  I  invite  all  the  world  to  bow  before  you 
with  the  same  attentive  reverence,  with  hearts 
that  forget  nothing. 

Union  of  pure  hearts  to  meet  the  ordeal ! 
Union  of  pure  hearts  that  our  country  may 
know  and  respect  herself!  Union  of  pure 
hearts  for  the  redemption  of  the  stricken 
world  I 


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